


Red Crown Rising

by magisterpavus



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Love/Hate, M/M, Mild Gore, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Slavery, Slow Burn, Subterfuge, Tevinter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 76,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tevinter is pretty much the most problematic place in Thedas. So why not send the most problematic team of people ever to fix it? (In which Krem, Fenris, and Dorian are forced to work together in order to crush the Magisterium and start the biggest slave rebellion the Imperium has ever seen.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so! this is gonna be interesting. tevinter shenanigans, love/hate relationships, and lotsa intense subterfuge. (the povs will vary but next chapter is probably gonna be dorian's pov/fenris's pov.) enjoy!

So maybe they had their differences. But they also had a common enemy, and that was what kept them together. Their mission was to infiltrate Tevinter’s deepest, darkest places and destroy it from the inside out in any way possible – by inciting widespread slave rebellion, wiping out the Venatori, and even, perhaps, killing the Archon. 

Krem had his doubts when the idea was pitched – three highly skilled native Tevinters with varying degrees of dislike for their country and its practices was all well and good, but they could hardly stand to be in a room together, much less start a revolution. Yes, they were a motley crew – a military deserter, a murderous ex-slave, and an estranged prodigal son. Krem, Fenris, and Dorian. Krem voiced his concerns to the Inquisitor and the newly-elected Divine, but they just gave him some very vague and utterly useless advice about team spirit, or something. So he was forced to go along with it, though not without some grumbling.

Fenris, however, won the prize for grumbling, if his protests about having to work with Dorian could even be called such. Maybe ‘boiling with hate’ was a more apt description. Some wine glasses had been smashed. Krem had met Fenris once before, after Hawke came to the Inquisition. Varric, whom Krem had shared many a drink with, had decided to send some envoys out to Hawke’s closest companions asking them to join the Inquisition, though he seemed pretty certain none of them would take him up on the offer. Krem had gone with a couple of other soldiers to find Fenris, who was relatively nearby compared to the others, in Ostagar. They found him fairly easily – he was hard to miss – and Krem’s first impression of him was angry. 

It was a subdued kind of anger; an endless bitterness simmering just under the surface of his otherwise cool and apathetic façade, but Krem had seen many angry men and their eyes never could hide it. The elf was no exception. Fenris turned down the offer, predictably, though he agreed to share a drink with Krem and the others before they left. That was when Krem discerned something else – Fenris was lonely. Lonely and angry don’t make for a good combination, and he made a mental note not to get on Fenris’s bad side.

Dorian, unfortunately, was on Fenris’s bad side from the very beginning. There were two things Fenris hated most – slavers and Tevinter mages, in that order, and in his mind Dorian fit into both categories. Dorian Pavus was not a bad man – in fact, Krem had heard many great things about him, most of them from Iron Bull, who also told him some things about Dorian he’d never, ever wanted to know. (Dorian once had a fling with him. He’d had flings with a lot of men. A lot.) He was, for one thing, very, very smart. It was no wonder – he spent the majority of his free time reading the entire library back at Skyhold (in addition to the books his family sometimes sent him as a kind of tentative peace offering). His undeniable intelligence combined with his innate talent for magic (especially necromancy and anything fire-related) made him both very dangerous and very helpful. And to add even more assets to Dorian’s long, long list – he was an Altus mage, of the highest class short of being a magister, which meant he had power and influence. And, if his rants about Tevinter were anything to go by, he wanted to use that power for good. For change.

Krem could respect that, yet he harbored some resentment for Dorian partly because he was an Altus, the class which had so often cast his own in shadow and driven his own father to sell himself into slavery, and partly because Dorian was a self-absorbed ass eighty percent of the time. The fact that he’d casually mentioned his family had owned dozens of slaves a few minutes after they’d met Fenris pretty much confirmed that, and certainly didn’t help matters with the elf. So between Dorian’s self-absorbed attitude, Fenris’s constant negativity and threats, and Krem’s unwillingness to deal with both of them…it was going to be interesting.

But then they’d received a message from Tevinter – a coded note sent by a lone raven that Leliana had carefully deciphered and passed on to them. It was, amazingly enough, from a slave in Minrathous, who was owned by a prolific magister called Quillian (Dorian winced and muttered something about his ‘awful parties,’ and Fenris made a face in agreement). She spoke in cryptic terms of an extensive slave underground that had been trying to contact the Inquisition for ages in order to gain allies in a position of true power who would be able to help them. Enclosed with the note was a black, silver-embossed invitation to none other than one of the awful parties. Quillian’s seal, a pair of silver cat eyes surrounded by silver leaves, was stamped neatly on the envelope. 

Dorian had examined it with bewilderment. “It’s a real invitation, alright,” he confirmed. “Stinks of Magister Quillian’s mansion – the whole place reeks of cloves and citrus. But what’s extraordinary is how a slave managed to procure one of these! There’s probably a very limited amount of them.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “It’s not extraordinary at all if she’s a favored slave. They have access to many of their master’s personal belongings and it would not be difficult to sneak a measly invitation away.”

Krem frowned. “Then why don’t more ‘favored’ slaves do that, if it’s so easy to go behind their backs and sabotage them?”

Fenris’s jaw clenched a little. “I never did. It’s…most of them don’t know any better than to be loyal. Clearly, however, this one does. We should help her before that disloyalty is discovered, or her punishment will be…severe.”

Dorian studied the note again. “She calls herself Sparrow. Says she’ll be wearing a ruby around her neck at the party to distinguish herself from the others…hm. What kind of slave would –”

“She’s a whore,” Fenris said bluntly. Dorian stared at him. “Oh, my apologies – an escort. Same difference.”

Krem nodded. “It makes sense…and she’d probably have, uh…interacted with a lot of magisters and gotten a lot of covert information from them in the process. Nobody would suspect her, if she played her cards right.” Krem whistled lowly. “This Sparrow is pretty impressive. Might have to consider asking her to join the Chargers after all this is over…”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, now,” Dorian cautioned. “First we have to meet her at this party. Which means…ugh.” He wrinkled his nose. “I suppose I’ll be writing to my father to inform him we’ll be visiting the family home in Minrathous. He’ll be surprised, to say in the least. And we’ll all need some party clothes…”

Krem raised an eyebrow. “It’s not like we can all go to the party. There’s only one invitation, Dorian.”

Dorian waved a hand airily. “Oh, we’ll only need the one,” he said. “I’ll be using it, of course.” He eyed the two of them appraisingly. Fenris had storm clouds gathering in his eyes. “Bodyguards don’t need invitations.” He winked. Krem sighed. Fenris glared.

*

The ballroom was shimmering, every surface draped with silvery gossamer fabric that made the very air sparkle, the shine reflected off of the vast, mirrorlike floor. The tables on either end were heavily laden with every kind of wine and pastry one could ever wish for, and the chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling twinkled and cast flecks of brilliant light across the many guests who milled about the dance floor. In the center, just below the chandelier, was an innocuous-looking silver altar of a sort, clean and metallic. It would not be used tonight, but she had seen it used before. She knew what it was for, and so did her master’s guests, though they easily ignored it.

Such was the Tevinter way of things – ignoring the truth or disguising it, coming up with pretty lies to cover up the ugly reality. Sparrow saw an uglier reality than most. Oh, you couldn’t tell by looking at her – a slight, auburn-haired elf with large limpid blue eyes and a meek smile – but she had dark secrets in her pretty little head. She sifted through them thoughtfully as she watched the party from the sidelines, hands clasped dutifully behind her back and head tilted down. But she was watching. She was always watching.

Tonight could be the most important night of her life so far – if her invitation had been successfully delivered and if it had been accepted. There were plenty of ifs. And still, she hoped, because that hope was all she had left these days. And she didn’t want to think about what would happen if her insubordination was discovered. Cautiously, she looked at her master, who stood several meters away, chatting quietly with two female magisters. Cassius Quillian had been young and handsome once – and some said he still was, but she could never see him as such. His dark hair flowed around his tawny face and gave him the appearance of a lion, perhaps…his calculating gold eyes added to the similarity, his aquiline nose giving him a classically attractive face, though it was lined here and there with signs of age. He was tall and had broad shoulders across which his silver and black robes flowed – the colors of House Quillian. 

Sparrow wore a variation of these colors too – all the slaves did, though hers were certainly more…revealing (not by her choice). She knew they were having the intended effect, too – she received many long glances and stares that made her shiver, though nobody had yet approached her. She had a reputation, and they knew she was expensive. But they were the least of her worries tonight. Again, her eyes searched the crowd for….for something. She didn’t know what quite yet.

When her eyes returned to Quillian, she started a little – the female magisters had been joined by a young man in dark violet robes, his words hard to make out from where she stood, but the tone of his voice light and almost teasing. Quillian was smiling at the newcomer graciously, one brow raised, and then both of their eyes turned towards Sparrow. She flushed and quickly looked back down, raising her eyes very carefully. She saw the younger man’s lips form the words, How much? and bit back a sigh. Well…she could only hope her possible allies wouldn’t arrive while she was gone. Nervously, she fingered the ruby at her throat as the two men approached, hardly even flinching when Quillian grabbed her chin and forced her to look up, letting the younger man admire her. She forced herself to relax, letting her eyes go blank and vacant, lips parting slightly. 

The man nodded. “Yes, she’ll do nicely, Magister Quillian,” he purred. He pressed a few shining gold coins into her master’s palm. “Do we have an agreement?”

Quillian inclined his head and released Sparrow, only for the other man to place a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Try not to leave any lasting injuries,” Quillian said with a bored wave of his hand. “I expect her back within the hour.” And then he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Sparrow with the young man, who steered her out of the ballroom and into one of the adjoining halls. They were less crowded, but a few people still leaned against the pillars with drinks, and a couple of slaves stood at the ready. One of them gave her a sympathetic look and she snuck him a small smile which she hoped looked convincingly brave.

They left the main hall and the sounds of the party faded behind them. She walked at the man’s side tensely, hyper-aware of where he touched her – one broad hand guiding her at the small of her back, not quite pushing though she saw the strength in his richly tanned arms and the cords of his neck. Like many of the other magisters there, he had a staff slung across his back – ornate and golden, with carved dragon wings at the tip and an ebony snake wrapped around the length of it. She shivered. He was not a magister she recognized. No…he was not a magister at all…but close enough.

There were still a few lingering party guests, but none of them noticed her or the Altus. It was a shock when he leaned close to her ear briefly and whispered, “I got your letter. Apologies for the whole charade, but…we must keep up appearances.”

Then it clicked. The black and gold staff, the snake – he was a Pavus. Dorian Pavus, the son who disgraced his family name by running off and joining the heretical Inquisition in savage Ferelden. She could have cried in relief, but instead she nodded tightly and murmured, “Did you come alone?”

He shook his head. “They’re in here.” They turned a corner, into one of the many small antechambers, and he closed the door behind them. Sparrow let out a long breath, the tension in her body dissipating at once. Two other men were waiting there with crossed arms, bodyguards by the looks of them – one with umber skin and warm brown eyes, and the other a lean elf who was practically a legend in Tevinter, his lyrium lines glowing dully in the presence of so much ambient magic. 

“Excellent,” Fenris said. “You somehow managed not to ruin the plan.”

Dorian grinned. “You wound me. I’ll have you know that I’m a brilliant actor when I need to be.” He patted Sparrow’s shoulder before stepping back and bowing. “Dorian Pavus, at your service, though I think you already guessed…unfortunately there aren’t many other Tevinter mages working with the Inquisition.”

“There aren’t any others,” Fenris countered. “Thankfully.” He looked back at Sparrow. “I’m Fenris.”

Her mouth twitched a little, amused that he apparently didn’t know about his reputation here. “I know who you are.” Fenris blinked. She shrugged, and left him to draw his own conclusions.

The other man smiled at her. “I’m not nearly as famous as these two, sadly. You can call me Krem.” She smiled back and gave a small curtsey. 

“So,” Dorian said conversationally, “you invited us here. Care to elaborate? Your letter left much to be desired.”

She licked her lips uneasily. “Ah…right. I couldn’t say everything I wanted to then, but…I can now that you’re here.” She closed her eyes for a moment, steeling herself before she began. “I’m one of the leaders of the Red Crown.”

Krem and Dorian looked clueless, but Fenris leaned forward with no small amount of fascination. “The Red Crown, truly? I thought they were destroyed years ago.”

She smirked. “Cut off one head and another grows in its place. It was never really destroyed…we just had to become more careful.”

“Pardon me for asking,” Dorian interrupted, “but what’s the Red Crown?”

Fenris chuckled darkly. “You wouldn’t know about them. They were the largest organized group of slaves ever recorded – responsible for many uprisings, acts of ‘terrorism,’ and even the deaths of certain magisters – until their leaders were publicly executed.” He glowered. “It was a very public event, though the name of the organization was never mentioned.”

Dorian made a soft sound. “That does sound somewhat familiar, now that you mention it. When was it…five years ago?”

“Seven,” Sparrow corrected, surprised at her own boldness. “We went into hiding after that, but recently…well, you know about the Venatori. We’ve been gathering intel on them, and we believe that if we can get them off the playing board…well, all the corrupt magisters are joining the Venatori, which makes it easier to sort the bad out from the good.”

Fenris folded his arms. “All magisters are corrupt in some way or another.”

Dorian sighed. “Not this again…”

Krem cut in hurriedly. “So what you’re saying is that if we smash all the bad eggs, we’ll be left over with the magisters who are less rotten and maybe more open to change?”

“Exactly. But the main problem is that we don’t have outside support.”

“And the Inquisition can give you that,” Dorian agreed. “In addition, I can try to pull as many strings as I have left here…”

Sparrow shifted. “I’m…afraid you don’t have many, Altus. But…there is a way to get more. It will be risky, and you will be in danger, but your aid would be invaluable to us.”

“Danger? Oh, I love danger. I didn’t spend all of last year hunting down demons, high dragons and a darkspawn magister for nothing. I’d like to think I’m a seasoned warrior by now.”

Fenris huffed. “You’re a mage.”

Dorian huffed louder. “You know what I mean. Anyway, let’s hear it, Sparrow. What’s your delightfully dangerous idea for me?”

She sucked in a breath. Well, it was now or never. “Join the Venatori.”

Krem gaped. Fenris growled. Dorian considered it. “That certainly would give you an advantage…but the Venatori aren’t halfwits – they’re well-aware of my current pariah-status. I think everyone is. To say they’d be suspicious is a huge understatement.”

“Yes,” Sparrow said, “so change the Dorian Pavus the Magisterium sees. You…you said you were a brilliant actor? Well…put on an elaborate act for them. Make yourself appear like the kind of person the Venatori would approve of.”

Dorian sniffed. “A horrible person, in other words. You want me to be the villain? Arrogant and power-hungry, all of that?”

Sparrow smiled. “Now you’re getting it.”

“That won’t be easy, you know,” he warned.

“I think you’re off to a good start,” Sparrow said. When he gave her a questioning look, she nodded at Fenris. “Everyone – slaves and magisters alike – knows about Fenris and how he escaped and tore Danarius’s heart out. Good job with that, by the way.”

Fenris nodded, his eyes wide as he took in the fact that he was practically a Tevinter celebrity. “Thank you.”

She continued. “Fenris was the bane of many magisters here – they feared another uprising would begin once the news of him reached the Imperium. He was a symbol of freedom and defiance.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Was?”

“Well…you’re back in the Imperium now, aren’t you? Under the control of another powerful mage, leashed as his bodyguard.”

Fenris’s eyes narrowed furiously and he gestured violently at Dorian. “That mage does not control me. I may be playing the role of his bodyguard but I am _not_ his slave.”

“Oh, of course,” Sparrow agreed mildly, “but the Venatori don’t know that.”

Dorian’s lips parted in realization. “If they thought I’d managed to singlehandedly recapture and enslave Fenris again, they’d show definite interest in me. And their suspicions might be dispelled, which would allow me to masquerade freely as one of them.”

Fenris stared at them both, seething. “This is not an acceptable plan.”

Krem frowned. “Well, it’s really the only plan we’ve got. Hey, maybe you could try to get back on your father’s good side too, Dorian.”

Dorian flinched. “I’d rather not resort to that,” he said, “but I suppose I could try.” He sighed. “Oh, how I’ve missed the literally cut-throat politics here…”

“So it’s settled then?” Sparrow asked excitedly. “You’ll do it, Dorian? Fenris, you don’t have to, but –”

“I don’t see a real choice here,” Fenris grumbled. “So yes, fine. I’ll go along with it. But mage, I swear, if you even try to turn this act into reality, I’ll rearrange your organs.”

Dorian held up his hands in surrender. “Yes, yes, I understand. And yes, Sparrow, I’m in. How about you, Krem?”

Krem nodded. “You know I am. My father…I wonder if he’s involved in this Red Crown at all. And I’ll see if I can contact some of my old friends – a lot of them were involved with deep black market business and slave smugglers. They’ve got no love for the Magisterium, that’s for sure.”

Sparrow clapped her hands. “Then it’s decided. I assume you’re staying at the Pavus estate here?”

“Indeed we are.”

“Expect more letters,” she said slyly. “The Red Crown is rising.” Sparrow turned to Dorian with a spark in her eyes that had not been there before. “And now, gentlemen, I believe our hour is up.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks bunches for the kudos. comments are always welcome, too!  
> I'll try to update as often as I can. enjoy!

The following morning, Dorian arrived with Krem and Fenris at the estate he’d spent many holidays at as a child. It was along the western edge of Minrathous, on the brink of city and countryside. The sweet sea air could be found in every nook and cranny of the sprawling house, which was built of soft white stone in a classical style of architecture, graceful and formidable at the same time. Dorian smiled almost as soon as they stepped off the carriage and onto the wide, paved drive – he’d missed this place. 

“It’s so…big,” Krem said, and Dorian winked at him playfully. Krem rolled his eyes. 

Dorian chanced a look over at Fenris and immediately wished he hadn’t – the elf was tense and his mouth was held in a thin, disapproving line that only intensified when a couple of elven slaves helped them with their bags (well, they tried to help Fenris. He wouldn’t let them). Another slave, older with crow’s feet around his gray eyes, greeted Dorian with a small bow and smile. “Master Dorian,” he said. “It has been a long time.”

Dorian grinned at him. “Avexus! I see you’ve kept this old place running smoothly as always.” He nodded to Krem and Fenris. “This is Avexus, the appointed head of the house when the Pavuses are away. Which is more often than not, I’m afraid. Avexus, this is Cremisius Aclassi and Fenris.”

Avexus noticeably faltered when he saw Fenris, but quickly recovered and bowed deeply to both of them. “It is a pleasure. May I ask how long you will be staying, Master Dorian?”

Dorian shrugged. “Only time will tell, I suppose. But for now…let’s just assume a few months?”

He could feel Fenris’s glare on the back of his neck. Avexus nodded. “Yes, master. Come, I will have someone show you to your rooms. Where will they be staying?”

Dorian tapped his chin. “Hm…Cremisius, you should feel right at home in the suite across from mine.”

“Sounds good,” Krem agreed.

Avexus shot a sidelong glance at Fenris. “Will he be staying in your quarters, master?”

Before Fenris could start a scene, Dorian smiled tightly and said, “For the time being, the room next to mine will be fine. Right, Fenris?”

Fenris unclenched his fists. “…Yes.”

Avexus was visibly confused by the whole exchange, but led them smoothly inside nonetheless. The main foyer was very clean and mostly empty, branching off into two large staircases beside which two younger female elves were waiting dutifully. Dorian approached them as he had Avexus. 

“Brina, Lanari! The two best maids in all of Thedas, truly.”

“Master Dorian,” they both said with polite curtsies. “May we show you up to your quarters? You must be very tired.”

“Exhausted,” Dorian admitted. “After we’re all situated, do speak to the kitchens about dinner. I’m positively famished.”

“Really, Dorian, I’m not that hungry –” Krem started.

“No, no, it’s fine. A nice meal will do you a world of good, Krem. And you too, Fenris.” Again, that same bewildered surprise in the elf maids’ eyes, quickly smoothed over. It was very interesting, the effect that this elf had on the rest of his people. “Well, go on, ladies. Lead the way.”

*

Dinner was…very, very awkward. No, that was an understatement. It was horrifyingly uncomfortable for everyone involved, and Dorian regretted even allowing Fenris into the house. That was how bad it was. Krem was unused to such luxury, clearly, but at least he had good manners and made an attempt to act as though he belonged, as though he wasn’t an intruder here on matters of subterfuge and crimes against the state. 

Fenris had no such smokescreen. He was on edge the entire time, barely touching his food and refusing any of the slaves’ help, and the slaves who served them didn’t know what to make of him at all – they couldn’t figure out if he was a very favored slave or he had, for some reason, returned to Tevinter of his own free will. The latter probably seemed ridiculous, Dorian realized, and yet it was the truth. So he had to give Fenris some credit for that, at least – the elf had fled this country at great cost and had now come back after brutally killing his past master and making a legend out of himself. An impressive story, yes, but also one that could quickly turn sour if anyone saw past the act they had agreed on. An act which Fenris was currently outright ignoring.

But Dorian didn’t say a word about it. How could he? How could he ask Fenris to once again be a dutiful slave to a Tevinter mage? No, he couldn’t. He also wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of having his innards ripped out – he’d seen what Fenris could do, and it was equally fascinating and terrifying. So for once in his life, Dorian kept his mouth shut.

After dinner, Fenris fled the table at once, leaving Krem and Dorian to talk quietly together, once all the slaves had cleared the dishes away. Krem had a sleepy look in his eyes, and his voice was rougher and lower from drowsiness, but he still seemed content to chat.

“So, the Fenris thing is gonna be a struggle,” Krem pointed out. 

Dorian groaned and rubbed his eyes. “I know. That damn elf hates my guts, and he’s not exactly subtle about it.”

“Subtle and Fenris don’t go together,” Krem agreed. “But…I don’t know. He just doesn’t trust you.”

“Probably a good decision on his part,” Dorian sighed. “Does he trust you?”

“More than he trusts you, I think. Hard to say. He’s been through a lot, y’know.”

“I know,” Dorian muttered. “I…ugh.” He sat back in his chair heavily. “I went to lots of parties back in the day, Krem. Some of them…not by choice. My father was deeply involved in politics, you see, and he wanted me to learn…well, how to not get myself killed, probably.” He barked out a short, bitter laugh.

Krem watched him carefully. 

“Anyway…my point is that Magister Danarius was also deeply involved in politics. My father, thankfully, opposed him in almost everything he did, but even opponents interact with each other from time to time.” He looked away, biting his lip. “I was at a couple of Danarius’s parties, back when Fenris was…well. Not nearly as feisty as he is now, let’s just put it that way. Those parties…what he did to his slaves…Krem, it was vile. It was magisters like him that made me see the flaws in my home; that made me want to fix it. And so here I am. Trying to fix it.”

Krem was silent for a little while. Then he asked, “Do you think Fenris remembers you?”

Dorian swallowed and shook his head. “Very doubtful. I was younger then – not nearly as handsome, if you can believe it – and besides, most of the times I saw him…he wasn’t focused on anyone other than Danarius, it seemed. Maker knows why, the man treated him like…well, a dog.”

“He was brainwashed,” Krem supplied. “It’s not his fault.”

“I know it’s not,” Dorian said. “And I’m glad he’s on our side now. I’m glad you’re on our side, too. I know Fenris isn’t the only one who’s suffered injustice at the hands of the Imperium.”

Krem raised his glass, half filled with wine. “To being on the same side, for once.”

Dorian smiled. “To that.”

*

In the morning, Dorian called for someone to draw him up a bath. One of the newest slaves, a young blonde woman called Nella, was chosen for the task, and went about it quietly and efficiently. He studied her as she worked, wondering if she was happy. The slaves of the Pavus family were treated better than most – they were never hungry or thirsty, and they always had a roof over their heads and clothes on their back. Sometimes they were punished if need be, but Dorian had never considered the punishments to be very severe, especially in comparison to other households. 

But…the fact remained that they were slaves. Their lives were not their own, legally. Their bodies belonged to somebody else. He wondered what that would be like, and found it hard to imagine – of course he did. He was not a slave, had never been a slave, and would never be a slave. He was an Altus and he would never see the world from any other perspective. But he could try, right? He could try. 

Nella finished her task and stood back, waiting for him to undress and get in. He did so with an appreciative sigh, stretching in the warm water and motioning for her to add some of the bottles of perfumed soaps lining the shelves. The steam rose high around him and he breathed it in deeply, toes curling – Skyhold’s mountain air had never really agreed with him. This familiar warmth was much, much better. 

Nella was waiting for further instruction nervously. He cracked an eye open. “Oh, you’re still here,” he said. “I think I can manage the rest myself, thank you.”  
“Yes, master,” she said with a tiny bow, hurrying out, the door clicking shut behind her. 

Dorian leaned his head back, letting his hair touch the water and then submerge, washing out the dust of long travels and the putrid scent of Quillian’s home. His muscles ached from too many hours in a bumpy carriage, though the water soothed them somewhat. It had begun to lose some of its heat, so he touched a fingertip to the surface, coaxing trickles of fire from it, the temperature finally reaching acceptable levels. 

He then lifted his hand, a tiny flame still hovering just above the skin. It would be strange, not to have to constantly worry about someone discovering he was a mage anymore; to display the staff on his back proudly instead of conceal it. Ferelden’s aversion to mages was perhaps not entirely unfounded (the Imperium was a solid example of mages gone wrong) but it still mystified him at times. The mages in Circles there…did they understand what it was to be a slave? 

His thoughts were cut off abruptly when the door opened more forcefully than necessary, and his flame intensified instinctively until he looked up and saw it was Fenris. Huh. The flame snuffed out and he draped his arms lazily over the side of the tub, raising an eyebrow at the disgruntled elf. “Fancy seeing you here,” he said.

His eyes narrowed. “I have no time for your inane banter, mage.”

Dorian made an expression of mock-hurt. “What have I done this time? Do tell.”

Fenris frowned. “You’re a complete hypocrite, that’s what.”

Dorian tilted his head. “Oh? Please elaborate.”

“How can you agree to work with the Red Crown and bring about the end of slavery when you own this many slaves?! Kaffas, you even had one in here just now; I saw her leave.” His eyes narrowed in accusation and Dorian felt a bit sick at what he was insinuating. 

Dorian looked at him steadily. “Nella was just drawing my bath, Fenris. And as for my supposed hypocrisy – none of these slaves, in fact, belong to me. They are my father’s. All families of the Magisterium have slaves. Wouldn’t it seem odd if we did not?”

Fenris grunted noncommittally.

“The answer is yes; yes it would seem odd,” Dorian finished. “I assure you I’m not very keen on the whole idea of slavery, but it will take a long time to eradicate it, and in the meantime we must put on a convincing façade if we wish to have any success with this.” He didn’t break Fenris’s gaze as he lifted himself out of the bath, very aware he was crossing a line as he walked towards the now shocked elf. He didn’t know why he did it, but then again he’d never been a self-conscious man. He stopped walking a few feet away from him, their eyes nearly on the same level. “We all have to put on façades, Fenris. Even ones we may not like.”

Fenris’s wide eyes darted down so quickly Dorian almost missed it, and when their eyes met again his cheeks were pink and his brow was lowered. “I am not a slave,” he said, almost as if he were trying to convince himself.

“I know,” Dorian murmured. “But many others still are. Now, do you want to help them, or not?”

Fenris nodded mutely, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Alright then,” Dorian said brightly, “glad that’s settled.” He crossed the room and snatched up a robe, wrapping himself in it. Fenris sighed in what could have been relief. “Now, would you mind telling me why you thought this matter was pressing enough to interrupt my bath?”

Fenris was definitely blushing. “I…do not have an answer for that.”

“Oh? You don’t?” Dorian smirked. “I’m not convinced. But nevermind. You seem a little wound up. Why don’t we do something fun?”

Fenris gritted his teeth. “I doubt any activity with you could be considered ‘fun,’ mage.”

Dorian gasped. “I’ll have you know I’m very fun! And the name is Dorian, not mage, just so you know.”

“Thanks for letting me know, mage.” Fenris raised an eyebrow and Dorian grinned at his insolence. 

“Ah, well. We’ll get there someday,” he said. “Now, let me get dressed and we’ll see about getting a smile on that stoic face of yours.”

*

Fenris swung himself up into the saddle with an expression of real interest on his face. “It has been a long time since I’ve done this,” he said, settling himself in the saddle and stroking his horse’s broad neck gently before taking the reins. Dorian’s family stables here were small but well-stocked. Fenris’s horse was a strong black charger, standing a bit taller than Dorian’s dun warmblood stallion. Most of the mounts he’d traveled on were mangier and not nearly as magnificent.   
Well…except for when he’d traveled with Danarius. He did not like to think about that – his old master had often forced him to walk alongside the horse or, even worse, ride with him, clinging to his master’s robes like a helpless child. This was a much better alternative – besides, they were not traveling anywhere, it was just pleasure. Pleasure was something Fenris had not been allowed or given for a long, long time.

Dorian flashed a grin at him from atop his own horse. “I hope you’re not too rusty,” he teased. “I’m rather good at this, if I do say so myself.”

Fenris accepted the mage’s challenge. “Oh, so it’s a race, is it?” The estate beyond the stables was full of rolling hills and meadows, perfect for riding. Beyond the Pavus lands lay a forest…a game forest for all the local nobles, perhaps. Fenris missed forests – there were so few here, and maybe it was something in his blood but he felt more at home in the shadows of trees. Safer. Would he still feel safe in the forest with the mage there? He decided not to dwell on it, and instead nudged his horse’s sides with a click of his tongue. 

Dorian did the same. “To the treeline and back?” he suggested as their horses trotted out of the stables and into the grass, hooves thudding rhythmically. Fenris nodded. “On the count of three, then. One, two –”

Fenris kicked his horse into action, and faintly heard Dorian’s indignant cry. “Never said I was going to play fair, mage!” he called over his shoulder, reins held tight in practiced hands. He leaned forward, into the movement of the animal, letting himself go. The sky above them was a bright powder blue, hard to look at for too long, the sun blazing boldly just above the horizon in the east. The ground was a blur as the horse thundered faster, faster, faster, Fenris’s hair streaming out behind him in silver-white ribbons, the wind stinging his eyes. 

What if he never stopped? What if he just kept running forever, until they reached the sea, until the waves swallowed them up? Every second he spent here made him want to leave more and more. He’d escaped, and now…his chest tightened. Now he was to pretend he was a mindless slave all over again. Fenris closed his eyes. Was it selfish to refuse to play his part in all of this? Because…he could still say no. He had been given a choice. Yet, like many of the choices in his life, it was not much of a choice at all.

Dorian’s horse was close behind his, and a fresh burst of adrenaline coursed through him. His horse tossed its head and galloped on, mouth frothing around the bit, sweat soaking both of their bodies. The trees were not far ahead. Dorian was saying something, probably a taunt of some kind, but Fenris wasn’t listening. In his mind, he was alone – more than that, he was free. Free of these difficult decisions, this wretched country, this insufferable mage. Free of –

The shadows of the trees washed over him, and he yanked on the reins, his startled horse snorting and skidding to a halt, stomping its feet. Dorian pulled up alongside him a few seconds later, laughing and sweaty. “I know when I’m beaten,” he chuckled. “Clearly I’m the rusty one.”

Fenris couldn’t help it, he smiled, heart pounding and blood rushing in his ears. “Clearly,” he said, smirking.

Dorian put a hand over his heart. “I don’t believe it. Is that _glee_ I detect?”

Fenris quickly steeled his features, crossing his arms. “No. No glee here.”

Dorian beamed. “It seems my job here is done.”

Fenris blinked, pushing his hair back from his face uncertainly, still panting. “I…your job?”

“To make you smile,” Dorian said.

Fenris flushed darkly, fingers shaking a little against the horse’s mane.

“It’s a good look on you,” Dorian continued. “I mean, don’t get me wrong – the broody, sullen look suits you too. But maybe mixing things up once in a while might not be a bad idea. Otherwise you might get wrinkles from frowning so much. And we wouldn’t want that.”

Fenris cleared his throat. “Uh. Okay?” He paused. “Varric called me Broody,” he added, not sure what else to say to that. Dorian’s smirk was not helping him find a train of thought.

Dorian snickered. “I bet he did. He gives everyone nicknames. He called me Sparkler.”

Fenris tilted his head. “Sparkler?”

Dorian nodded, sparks igniting in his palm. “Fire’s kind of my thing.”

Fenris tensed, his lyrium lines flickering briefly, and Dorian’s expression changed to…concerned? 

“Apologies,” Dorian sighed, the sparks going out. “Varric did mention that using magic causes you…discomfort. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Fenris hunched his shoulders. “It doesn’t…hurt, exactly.” Why was he telling the mage this?

_Because he went to all this trouble just to make you smile,_ a little voice in his head said. _Shut up,_ Fenris told it.

Dorian now looked rather intrigued. Typical. “Then what does it feel like?”

Fenris swallowed harshly. “It…depends. Different mages have different magic, so. Different feelings. Like, ah…Quillian, his magic sort of…crackled. Strong, dangerous. Dark. That kind of magic hurts, sometimes. I suppose I’m just more sensitive to it.”

Dorian leaned towards him slightly. “What does mine feel like?”

Fenris licked his lips. “I, ah…” 

The worried look was back again, a crease forming between Dorian’s brows. “I’ve dabbled in quite a bit of necromancy, which might qualify as dark magic, so if it hurts that’s probably why –”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Fenris said. “It’s…I don’t know. Hard to tell in such small amounts, but it’s, uh…warm? Not painful, though.”

“Warm?” Dorian considered that. “Well, that doesn’t sound too awful.”

“No, it’s –” Fenris froze. “Somebody’s coming.”

His warning came too late – two men on horseback emerged from the trees, their conversation tapering off. Then one of them exclaimed, “Dorian Pavus?! Returned from Ferelden at last, have you? We thought you’d settled down there for good.”

Fenris stayed silent, his heart pounding all over again. They were both mages – all Altus. Friends of Dorian’s, if the way he smiled at them was any indication. Then again, the smile was just a bit too sharp. “Valens, Rilienus. What an unexpected pleasure. And I’m afraid Ferelden is just as disagreeable as the rumors say,” he confided. “Far too much snow for my liking.”

The fairer of the two, Rilienus, laughed lightly. “I suspect you liked it there more than you let on, Dorian. You were there for three years, isn’t that right? With the Inquisition.”

“Ah, the Inquisition. It was fun while it lasted, but once the Breach was closed their incessant talk about Divines and Andraste and dogs and such bored me to no end. And trust me, their talk was bad enough. Their accents…” He winced. “Atrocious.”

Fenris forced himself to keep his head bowed when one of the men pointed at him. “And what’s that you’ve got there, Pavus? Those tattoos look rather like –” Fenris slowly raised his head and the men cursed. There was fear in their voices, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it.

“This is Fenris,” Dorian said.

“You don’t mean –”

“Yes,” Dorian confirmed. “Danarius’s old pet.”

Fenris cringed, although it was true. The two mages stared at him, amazed. “But Dorian, he killed Danarius,” Rilienus muttered. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll…well…”

“No,” Dorian interrupted loudly. “He’s loyal to me now…I made sure of that. Completely tame, unless someone tries to hurt me. Then he’ll kill them as efficiently as he killed Danarius. Won’t you, Fenris?”

Fenris hated himself for it, hated Dorian for it, but he said, “Yes, master.” The words felt familiar in his mouth and he hated that even more. He kept his eyes downcast, his hands clasped. He played his part perfectly, terrible as it was. 

“Fasta vass, it’s true,” Valens whispered. 

“And to think I considered you to be a reformer,” Rilienus laughed. “I see I have much to learn about you, Dorian.” There was something light in his tone. Flirting? Suddenly, there was a lump in Fenris’s throat.

“Perhaps you do,” Dorian replied in that same light tone. Fenris felt sick, and he didn’t know why. “Anyway, it has been lovely, but as you can see I’m in need of a tall glass of water, so I’ll take my leave.”

“Of course,” Rilienus replied. He hesitated. “You know you’re always welcome at the Lucio estate, Dorian.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Am I?” Then he wheeled his horse around, starting back towards the stables. Fenris followed though he was reluctant to turn his back on the mages, the back of his neck prickling. Dorian’s horse was in a full gallop, and the tables were turned – this time it was Fenris struggling to keep up, and there was no joy in the journey.

When they reached the stables, Dorian dismounted straightaway, and Fenris clambered off after a few long seconds of steadying himself. He was still trembling, though it was no longer from fear, but from anger. He stalked towards Dorian, fuming. “You knew they were going to be there,” he hissed. “You knew and you took me there so you could show me off to your damn Altus friends and start this idiotic plan!”

“I didn’t know,” Dorian said. He looked like he’d just seen a ghost, and he clutched the nearest stall door for support. “I swear I didn’t know, Fenris, or I never would have gone at all, with or without you.” Fenris knew in that moment he was telling the truth – Dorian was more shaken than he’d ever seen him before. He looked away, tendons standing out in his neck and hands, mouth thin and unhappy. “Perhaps you should go,” Dorian suggested. “I…need some time. Alone.”

Fenris let out the furious breath he’d been holding, his heated words dissolving in the wind. “Yes,” he said flatly. “I think that would be best.” But as he turned on his heel, storming back to the house, he did not feel as angry as he should have.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stuff goes down in the next chapter (sorry for these 3 very exposition-y chapters. hang in there!)

That night, the three of them stared at the envelope on the table, sealed with red wax stamped in the faint shape of a crown. Slowly, Krem leaned forward and broke the seal, opening the envelope and gingerly picking up the letter inside, furrowing his brow at it. Fenris, with an impatient noise, snatched it from him, eyes skimming the letters he’d just recently learned to decipher.

He tossed it back down onto the table in irritation. “This makes no sense.”

Dorian was the last to pick it up, tilting his head as he read it. “ _A spring of water made by man, square in the city’s heart/Make a wish on this golden coin and at midnight she’ll come apart._ ” Dorian blinked and picked up the envelope, shaking it out onto the surface. Sure enough, a small golden coin clattered out. “Make a wish…oh, of course! The fountain,” he said. “The Lady of the Plaza fountain in the center of the city.”

“’At midnight she’ll come apart?’” Krem muttered. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“I suppose we’ll figure out what they mean by that after we make a wish and toss the coin in,” Dorian replied. “Presumably at midnight.”

Fenris huffed and crossed his arms. “I don’t like this.”

“Do you actually like _anything_ , Fenris?” Dorian snapped, and Krem looked at him in surprise. The elf narrowed his eyes. “I…that was unworthy of me.”

“But a valid question,” Fenris said, arms still crossed but with no bite in his tone.

Krem looked from Fenris to Dorian and cleared his throat. “Anyway…it’s nearly ten already. If we’re going to get to the fountain by midnight, we should probably hurry. These don’t seem like the kind of people who will wait up for us.”

Dorian frowned. “Why shouldn’t they? Right now, we’re their only hope if they want to succeed.”

Fenris bristled. “Why do all magisters have superiority complexes?”

“I’m not a magister,” Dorian reminded him.

“You’d be more useful to them if you were,” Fenris shot back. 

“ANYWAY,” Krem interrupted, “the fact remains that they’ll expect us to be on time.”

“Then let’s not disappoint them,” Dorian said.

*

The fountain was a subdued trickle when they arrived – the plaza completely empty and the shops lining it closed up for the night. Their windows were dark, gaping eyes watching the three men cross the cobbles, their carriage waiting in a dim side street. 

Dorian held the gold coin tight in one hand. Krem had the letter shoved into one of his pockets. Fenris had his sword strapped to his back, which wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, but…maybe it was a necessary precaution. Fenris certainly seemed to think so. Then again, Dorian had his staff on his back, though here that was considered more ornamental than defensive, to be honest.

Dorian approached the fountain and stared into the still water, his blurry reflection looking back at him, the moon a small silver disk alongside it. The fountain’s namesake, a statue in the center of an elegant hooded lady in gold, towered above them, her sightless eyes turned towards the skies. They waited for a few long moments, tense – Fenris kept shifting, pacing like he couldn’t stand still, eyes flicking back and forth. Krem crossed his arms, eyes on the main road, which was utterly abandoned. 

Dorian watched the moon.

Then the distant bell tower chimed, long mournful notes that carried across the city. Dorian didn’t have to wait to know there would be twelve chimes, so he tossed the gold coin into the water with a soft splash, holding his breath expectantly. The clock kept chiming. 

“You did it too early, idiot,” Fenris hissed, but then the clock finished and…the water began to glow around where the coin had fallen, brightening to a silver sheen around the bottom.

Krem cursed. “The damn coin’s _magic_? Figures. If Bull were here…” Dorian winced. Yes, Bull would have a few choice words to say about the magic coin. He would probably have even more to say about the way the base of the statue began to fissure, a strange pattern of cracks that gave way to a gaping archway leading inside her hollow body, and, from the looks of it, down. 

_At midnight she’ll come apart._ Well…that was far more literal than he’d expected. 

“The sewers,” Fenris whispered. “They must be down there. Quickly.”

Dorian eyed the dark hole doubtfully, but sighed and hiked up his robes, wading through the fountain and scrambling up into the statue, his feet finding purchase on some kind of ladder there. Carefully, he descended, with Krem above him and Fenris at the top. It was a good thing they’d hurried, because the statue sort of…folded back in on itself, sealing them neatly inside and plunging them into complete darkness. Dorian made an irritated noise and snapped his fingers, a small yellow flame springing to life and hovering at his side. In addition, Fenris’s lines began to glow, which he didn’t look very happy about. To his credit though, he kept quiet. And the extra light was welcome.

It was a long ladder, and by the end of it, Dorian’s hands were sore and covered in disgusting damp grime, which he quickly removed with a cleaning spell. He offered to do the same for Krem and Fenris, but they just looked at him like he was crazy and started walking. Oh, well. Their loss. 

The sewer tunnel, thankfully, didn’t smell awful – it wasn’t a pleasant smell, either, but it was bearable – a kind of mildewy mustiness. At first, it just looked like any plain old sewer – but then Fenris pointed out something on the walls. Scratches in the stone – tiny pictographs, figures and objects and letters Dorian didn’t understand. “Slave language,” Fenris said simply.

“What does it say?” Krem asked.

Fenris shrugged, running his fingertips over the walls as they walked. “Many things. But mainly? It says we are safe.”

Dorian blinked. “Safe? From what?”

Fenris glanced back at him, eyes narrowed. “From you.” His eyes flicked purposefully to the staff at Dorian’s back. “Your kind.”

No sooner had he said that, a glowing, definitely magical orb of light emerged from the darkness up ahead, followed by a woman holding a wooden staff whose tip fizzled with energy. Dorian sighed. “You were saying?”

There was panic in Fenris’s expression until the woman came close enough for them to see the curve and point of her ears, the raggedness of her clothes, and the spiderweb of pale scars on the left side of her stern face, marring her unmistakable vallaslin markings. Her orb-light hovered next to Dorian’s flame, casting their faces in strange bluish shadows. She nodded to Fenris and Krem, her eyes darkening a little when they fell upon Dorian. “Aneth ara,” she said. “You solved our riddle.” Dorian nodded.

“Is Sparrow here?” Krem asked.

The woman glanced at him. “No. She…had business with her master.” Dorian’s stomach turned. It didn’t take a genius to figure that one out. “But no matter. Follow me, and I will take you to meet the others.”

As they walked, Fenris cleared his throat and muttered, “You’re a mage.”

She inclined her head, not looking back. “Yes, da’len. Does this trouble you?”

Dorian wanted to laugh. Saying mages ‘troubled’ Fenris was a vast understatement. But Fenris just asked, “Does it trouble you?”

She paused. “It troubles my master. But it does not trouble me any longer. I can help more, as a mage. The coin that was given to you? My work. It is my magic that allows myself and others to slip away in the night.” Her orb bounced along in agreement. “I know magic has left its scars on you, Fenris. But not all magic is like that.” Fenris stiffened, brows knitting together. “Although I suspect you already know this, given that you are traveling in the company of an Altus.”

Fenris growled. “Not by choice, I assure you.” Dorian winced. Ouch. He knew the Inquisitor and Divine Victoria were idealistic, especially in their formation of this whole wretched plan, but maybe they could have at least put somebody less hostile on the team, or whatever this was. Still…the elf was kind of growing on him, mage-hating tendencies and all. And this morning, in the woods with him…he hadn’t seemed so hostile then. Almost…well, maybe ‘friendly’ was a stretch.

The woman said impassively, “You are a free man now, Fenris. Nobody is forcing you.”

He made a supremely frustrated noise but otherwise didn’t reply. Guilt bloomed in Dorian’s chest – the woman wasn’t entirely correct. Fenris couldn’t leave now – Sparrow had made it clear his presence as a ‘slave’ was necessary if they ever wanted the Venatori to accept Dorian. So really, wasn’t it Dorian’s fault that he couldn’t leave?

“Through here.” The woman stopped before a blank stretch of wall, drawing her hand across it. With the same burst of silver glow, the stones vanished like an illusion and gave way to a warmly-lit room filled with elves who watched them with a variety of emotions flitting across their faces. Understandably, the glares were reserved for Dorian, while they looked upon Krem with curiosity and Fenris with reverence. “Friends, the night has brought us help from the south. Yes, the rumors are true – Fenris has returned, and with him an ex-soldier with underground connections and a powerful Altus sympathetic to our cause.”

There were murmurs among the elves. Dorian saw they were young, most of them, though a few looked worn by age and labor. Some, like the woman with the orb, were visibly scarred or injured. Others bore their injury only in their angry eyes and skinny frames. His guilt grew – and to think he’d once justified slavery. He’d thought it was better than living in alienages and slums, but…they had lived terrible lives. That much was clear. This was not better than anything.

The woman turned to them. “I am Ghilani, one of the leaders of the Red Crown, along with Sparrow, whom you have met, and two others whom you will meet in time. And yes, Fenris, one of them is a mage too.”

Fenris sighed.

“But we are not gathered here to discuss the Red Crown. No, tonight we gather to discuss another rising group – the Venatori. The people you see before you now are slaves to a magister whom we believe is involved with this cult.” She nodded to a teenage boy in the front, dark hair falling into his fierce eyes. “Tell them what you know.”

“My master is Magister Aurelian Titus.”

Dorian swore with feeling. The boy flinched and blinked at him. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. “Go on. This is going to be good.”

“…Alright. Well, he…he’s a dreamer, a powerful one who walks in the Fade and can hurt people in their sleep,” the boy said. Dorian bit his lip. He could’ve told them that. But what he couldn’t have told them was what the boy said next. “He’s one of the main forces behind the Venatori, I’m sure of it. He…he has an artifact of some sort. It’s ancient, and he’s been…” He trembled. “He’s been taking slaves, and they never come back. We think the artifact, whatever it is, uses blood magic, and it makes him stronger. It –”

“The Magrellan,” Dorian breathed. “Oh, this is bad.”

Ghilani frowned. “You know of this artifact?”

Dorian wrung his hands. “I…yes, a bit. I was Magister Alexius’s apprentice for some time, and studied ancient artifacts to some extent. The Magrellan was some kind of vessel powered by blood, usually of a powerful mage…though many slaves might suffice, I don’t know. It augmented the power of the mage or mages using it; made them stronger and less susceptible to possession. But…it was said to be destroyed centuries ago.”

“Evidently it was not,” Fenris muttered. “What a shame.”

Dorian looked back at the boy. “Have you noticed anything odd lately besides the disappearances?”

The boy hesitated, confused. “Odd how?”

“If it truly was the Magrellan, there might be disruptions in the Veil. That much blood magic at once would cause a disturbance, and could cause…tears. Spirits and demons could slip through. Blood magic is very volatile.”

Fenris glowered. “I suppose you would know all about that.”

Dorian took a deep breath, then looked back at the elf. “Please don’t ever insinuate that I’m a damn maleficarum again,” he said. “I loathe blood magic, hard as it may be for you to believe. It’s the resort of a weak mind.”

Fenris seemed a little taken aback at the intensity of his tone and words, and closed his mouth. 

Ghilani looked at Dorian with great interest. “An Altus who doesn’t practice blood magic? Very rare indeed. But you know something about how the Magrellan works? How to destroy it, and destroy Titus in the process?”

“It’s not just him,” the boy added. “He has…meetings. Magisters or just mages, I don’t know, but they all wear hoods and staffs and they all take the slaves.”

Krem tilted his head. “How many mages?”

“Ah…over a dozen, at least.”

“Damn,” Krem whistled. “How’re we gonna fight our way through that many of ‘em?”

“We’re not going to,” Ghilani reminded him. “The Altus is going to join them, gain their trust and information. And then we will strike, when the moment is right. With the Magrellan destroyed, the Venatori will have lost one of their major sources of power. And if we kill Titus as well, it will weaken them further.”

“Slow down,” Dorian said with some alarm, “we can’t just waltz in and destroy the Magrellan just like that! It’s not just a vessel for blood magic; it’s a direct link to the Fade.”

Krem wrinkled his nose. “A direct link? You mean…if we destroyed it, we’d be sent into the Fade itself, just like that?” Dorian nodded and Krem groaned. “I did not sign up for this, Pavus.”

“There might be another way, though,” Dorian mused. “If we destroyed the link between the Magrellan and whatever – or whomever – was fueling it.”

The boy blanched. “You mean kill them? No! Some of the ones taken were…they were my friends.”

“Not kill them,” Dorian said gently. “Just sever the connection, which is probably both magical and physical. Without the blood connected to it, the Magrellan is, theoretically, useless, and could be destroyed without opening a giant rift to the other side.” He was done with rifts, thank you very much. 

“Theoretically?” Fenris hissed. “You’re not even sure if it’ll actually work?”

“Well, it’s something, isn’t it?” Dorian snapped. 

“Yes, it is,” Ghilani agreed. “It is a better plan than what we had before, which was nothing.”

There were murmurs of agreement from around the room. Then a small girl with scarlet hair spoke up. “Master Titus is having a party in two days’ time. If the Altus were to attend, he could win favor from him.” She looked earnestly at Dorian. “Master Titus is very, very fond of Antivan brandy.”

The other slaves chuckled nervously. “It’s true,” the boy confirmed. “And you wouldn’t need an invitation. The parties are...open to all.”

“Well,” Dorian said, “I am _quite_ good at flattery.” Almost unconsciously, he glanced at Fenris, only to find that the elf was looking at him. Their eyes met and Fenris glanced away furiously, flushed. Well. That was interesting.

“I pray that is true for your sake, Altus,” Ghilani murmured. “You must not let down your guard, and you must not let your mask slip, not even once.”  
Fenris grumbled, “Is no one else concerned he might start playing his part _too_ well and betray us?” Some slaves muttered like that was exactly what they’d been thinking, and the glares started to return.

Before Dorian could protest (because he was not a traitor to anyone except maybe his country), Ghilani smiled tightly and shook her head. “No, Fenris. I think you can rest easy in that respect. Friends, I trust this Altus.” Dorian looked just as shocked as the rest of them. “I know we’ve all suffered at the hands of his kind and his superiors. But remember that slaves are not the only ones who suffer.” Her eyes glinted when she looked at him, and his blood ran cold. How could she know? “He will help us.”

Dorian bowed his head, a hand over his chest. “I will. You have my word.”

“Then good luck, Altus,” she said. “You’re going to need it.”

*

The next few weeks were a blur for Fenris. Strangely, it was not a wholly unpleasant blur, though there were many things he would rather not have had to go through – mostly the parties he and Krem were forced to accompany Dorian to. Parties where Dorian acted like an even bigger ass than he usually was; an act which infuriated Fenris to no end until he realized Dorian hated it nearly as much as he did. Fenris was no stranger to drinking, and it was not long before he saw Dorian used it to numb himself – whether at the parties or afterwards. It didn’t happen at every party, but when it did, the common variables were when the Altus named Rilienus was there or when he had to show off Fenris to his slowly-growing group of possible-Venatori, including Magister Titus.

Dorian getting upset about the showing off part was strange to Fenris because Dorian was certainly not the wounded party there – _he_ wasn’t the one who had to be perfectly subservient and put up with magisters pawing all over him to ‘study’ the lyrium lines. But he was, grudgingly, starting to understand that Dorian actually cared about his wellbeing to a certain extent, and thus it was hard for him to subject Fenris to such things. And he knew that, incredibly enough, it seemed Dorian didn’t particularly like parading them around as master and slave. 

The Rilienus factor was a bit more mysterious, but it intrigued Fenris how Dorian always acted around the other Altus. He was flirtatious – but then again Dorian was always some degree of flirtatious. Still, with Rilienus Lucio, it was…different. There was something below the surface of casual teasing – something deeper and stronger and, if Dorian drowning himself in wine afterwards was any indication, something painful. But amidst trying to get more information about the Venatori and this damned Magrellan thing, there wasn’t much room for sneaking about Dorian’s personal affairs. 

Until one night after one such party when, after Dorian trudged upstairs gloomily with a bottle in hand, the slave named Avexus approached Fenris before he could follow.

“Fenris,” he whispered. “If you have a moment to spare, I would speak with you.”

Fenris paused. Avexus unsettled him – he may have been owned by Magister Halward but he seemed loyal enough to Dorian…still, there was a certain brightness in his eyes which most slaves did not possess. Fenris was quite sure Avexus had figured out he was no slave, since Dorian could hardly bear to treat him as such in his own household. So Fenris was wary. But he nodded, and followed Avexus into a small side-parlor. The elf closed the door carefully and turned towards him with a grim expression. 

“It is regarding Master Dorian,” he said. “It has come to my attention that you do not know the whole story of why, precisely, he left Tevinter three years ago.”  
Fenris frowned. “What more is there to know? He is, as he says, a pariah. He’s the ‘ _good Tevinter_.’” He said the words with such distaste that Avexus smiled slightly. “His family rejected his beliefs, and he fled to the Inquisition to prove his worth. Is there something I’m missing?”

Avexus sighed. “Yes, actually. Master Dorian is…not all of his opposition towards the Magisterium is by choice. I am certain you’ve noticed he is not the subtle sort. Unfortunately, his lack of subtlety led to Master Pavus noticing his son’s activities.”

“Activities?”

Avexus sighed, louder this time. “Master Dorian prefers the company of men. As in sex.”

Fenris’s lips parted. “Ah.” He thought back to Dorian in the bath and raised an eyebrow. “I gathered that much, I suppose. But I mean…does he not prefer women…at all?”

“Not at all, apparently,” Avexus replied. “Which proved to be quite challenging when Master Pavus attempted to find him a suitable wife. He was grooming Master Dorian to be Archon, you see, and every Archon needs –”

“An heir,” Fenris finished. “Yes, I see how that would be a problem.” But secretly, he was glad. Dorian as Archon? He shuddered at the thought. Too many Archons had fallen, either to greed or assassination. And there was no doubt as to which fate would have befallen Dorian.

“So Master Pavus kept trying, and failing, to secure a match. Master Dorian attempted to go behind his back time and time again, but eventually there was a…breaking point. It happened here, in fact, in this very house. I remember it clearly.” He shivered. “Master Pavus caught his son sneaking back in after a night at some young man’s house. Master Dorian tried to talk his way out of it, but…Master Pavus used magic against him, right there in the hall. He was…so, so angry.”

Fenris swallowed. “Used magic against him?”

Avexus averted his eyes. “Made him unable to move or escape. Master Dorian started shouting and all the slaves heard, but…there was nothing we could do. Then Master Pavus took out a very small knife and said he was going to change Master Dorian; to make him an acceptable son. And then he –”

“Stop,” Fenris said, shaking his head. “I don’t want to hear what he did to him.” And to think he’d accused Dorian of practicing blood magic. Oh, the irony.

“My apologies,” Avexus murmured. “Anyway…Master Dorian managed to escape.” His tone lightened a little. “He’d been studying mortalitasi texts with Magister Alexius, and the blast of spirit energy caught Master Pavus completely off-guard. After that night, I did not see or hear from Master Dorian again for three years.” Avexus crossed his arms. “And then he returned with you. Fenris, the escaped slave of one of the most notoriously cruel masters in the Imperium, who opposed everything Master Dorian did and who wanted to bring about change with him. And I thought, foolishly, that Master Dorian might be happier now.”

“Happier?” Fenris asked. “But why –”

Avexus waved a hand. “I wrongly assumed. Forgive me.”

Fenris’s eyes narrowed. “Wrongly assumed _what_?” But he already knew, and his heart pounded.

Avexus eyed him with pity. “It is no secret, especially among slaves, that Magister Danarius used you as more than a bodyguard, Fenris.” Fenris flinched, lyrium lines beginning to glow warningly. The older elf did not react. “And in the end, you gave him what he deserved.” Fenris’s lyrium faded; though an echo of anger towards the mention of old wounds remained. “But Magister Danarius was an evil man. Master Dorian is not. Remember this, Fenris.” Avexus turned to go.

A second before the elf’s fingers touched the doorknob, Fenris said, “Wait. Do you know anything about Rilienus Lucio?”

Avexus paled. “He is a manipulative man, and Master Dorian knows it. Yet he keeps returning to him. Rilienus does not make him happy. If he did, Master Dorian would not be in his quarters passed out from yet another night of too much wine.”

“But why does he return to him?” Fenris asked, bewildered.

Avexus looked very, very sad. “Master Dorian does not know what he wants,” he said. “And he is looking for it in the wrong places anyway.” With that, he turned the knob and slipped back out into the foyer, leaving Fenris alone in the parlor, listening to the faint sound of a bottle shattering upstairs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woohoo, finally these two are getting somewhere. next chapter gets even more interesting! (and it will be entirely from fenris's pov.)

Dorian thought the plan was going splendidly so far, and yet he was miserable. 

It was terribly selfish of him, of course – he was doing what he’d always preached about, reforming the country and taking down the corrupt magisters, albeit in a very roundabout way. He was doing the right thing, the noble thing. But after being away from Tevinter for so many years, he’d forgotten exactly how awful it was to pretend to be someone he was not – or, an even worse thought: to be the person he truly was, with all of his flaws magnified to the nth degree. 

Dorian knew he was a spoiled brat at best, an arrogant prick at worst. But on top of all that, now he had to be evil, too. He knew it wasn’t black and white – evil was a very relative term – but praising blood magic, boasting about the glories of Tevinter, and parading Fenris around like a leashed dog? He certainly felt evil when he did those things. And the worst part was that sometimes, he longed to be like the sneering magisters who’d begun to surround him at parties – because they fit right in here, in beautiful, wretched Tevinter. They had power, wealth, popularity – they would never have fathers who tried to change them or be forced to flee their lavish lives for fear of bringing ruin upon their family names. They were everything Dorian had once admired, and he was certain that many of them were just as blind to their corruption as he himself had once been.

But others were not so naïve. They knew exactly what they were doing, and they knew it was wrong, but they didn’t care. They would do anything in their quest for power and glory, or whatever it was that they wanted so badly. Restoring Tevinter to its former self was an awful idea – and yet they still strived for it, with little thought to the masses they would crush underfoot in the process. 

Magister Quillian was one of those magisters. Dorian tried to follow his example and agree with him as much as possible in their many conversations, though on the inside his gut twisted and his throat constricted because the man was toxic, truly. He had many delusions, but they were grand and sounded lovely the way he presented them to Dorian and the others. He simply oozed charisma and it was sickening how many were bewitched by him. 

Magister Titus was…a bit different. Unlike Quillian, he was not one for long speeches. In fact, he was disconcertingly…quiet. Reserved. No, he did not speak often…he was more a man of action. And his actions made it abundantly clear as to what kind of man he was.

At Titus’s third party, there was a blood ritual.

Of course, things happened before that. You don’t simply open up a party with a blood ritual; you have to work up to it. Apparently.

Dorian, accompanied by an uncomfortable Krem (who almost immediately ran off to find Sparrow) and a silent Fenris, was greeted in the garden by none other than damn Rilienus Lucio, dashing as always. “Red is an excellent color on you,” Rilienus told him, smirking and bowing his head slightly. “Quite a change from your usual black and gold, mm?”

“What can I say?” Dorian shrugged. “I look good in everything.” Fenris might have scoffed, but it was very, very quiet.

“I don’t doubt it, Dorian,” Rilienus replied smoothly. “Come, your...friends are inside. I’m certain they’ll be delighted you’re here.”

Dorian laughed. “If they weren’t, I’d be very put out. Will you be joining our conversation, or would you rather ogle the Sinclair twins instead?”

Rilienus paused, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “My, my, Dorian. Is that a note of jealousy I detect?”

Dorian smiled coolly. “It’s no secret the Lucios and Sinclairs have been discussing marriage, Rilienus. And they are lovely women.”

“Lovely women?” Rilienus snorted. “As if you would know, Dorian. But yes, you’re correct – there has been talk of an engagement between myself and Callista Sinclair. So yes, I might just ogle her for a while – I doubt she’ll mind. There’s quite a connection between us.”

Dorian knew the bastard was baiting him. He knew it, and he replied anyway. “Oh? A connection? Rilienus, you wound me.”

“Please,” he murmured, “we never had any chemistry. You know that as well as I. What we did have…” He glanced at Fenris for the first time, who was staring blankly but definitely listening, and leaned close to Dorian’s ear. “What we did have was damn good sex. And I won’t pass that up, if you’re offering.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes and took a step backwards. “Apologies,” he said. “I don’t think I’m drunk enough for that yet.”

“In that case, we’ll talk again after you’ve had a few glasses.”

“Right,” Dorian said frostily, putting his hand on Fenris’s back and steering him away from the amused Altus. “I should find my friends.”

“Right.”

Dorian let go of Fenris as soon as they were out of Rilienus’s sight, the two of them walking into the grand ballroom and letting the cool air wash over them. Thankfully, Titus’s home did not have the same overly perfumed scent as Quillian’s. It smelled fresh and clean with a hint of lemons or linens or something of the sort, probably from the floor polish used on the shining marble. The entire room was hung with the House Titus heraldry – a blue banner with a gold falcon in the center, wings spread proudly. 

Compared to other parties he’d been to, Titus’s were almost modest. The food was delicious but never overly extravagant, and the entertainment was usually restricted to several musicians and some theatrical productions in the gardens, along with the occasional rare beast or a group of elven dancers draped in scarves and jewelry. To Fereldens, it would be incredible – but to him, it was almost average. Almost.

“Ah, Pavus! Late as always?” Dorian hurried over to join the sizeable group of Altuses and magisters beside the pastries table. Looking at them, it was hard to imagine they were part of a vicious cult, but after five minutes of talking with them it became abundantly clear they were all utterly mad. Quillian was there, a timid brunette elf clinging to his elbow, and he dipped his head in welcome. 

“Fashionably late,” Dorian corrected, nodding back to Quillian. “Have I missed anything exciting?”

“Oh, not at all,” a younger Altus assured him with a wave of his hand. “Titus planned the real excitement for later tonight.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “I’m intrigued. What does he have planned?”

Quillian pursed his lips. “It is a surprise. Titus was very hush-hush about it, but after all he is always very hush-hush about everything.” There was a soft titter of laughter. “Anyway, Dorian, I’m glad you’re here – there was something I wished to discuss with you. It…concerns your elf.”

“Ah, you’re only acquainted with me for my elf, the _legendary Fenris_? I see how it is, Quillian,” Dorian teased. But his heart thudded – what did the magister want? There was something hungry in his eyes, and Dorian didn’t like it one bit. 

“You’ve figured me out,” Quillian chuckled. “But no, no, Dorian, in all honesty – the matter also concerns you. Please, join me on the balcony. There is a wonderful breeze tonight.” The others were continuing on talking like normal, so it was easy for the two men and the elf to break away and retreat to the seclusion of the closest balcony. It overlooked the sprawling city and the dark sea, and Dorian saw Fenris pause to look at the view – from up here, Minrathous looked magnificent. One could almost forget its many faults, if only for a few seconds.

“So,” Dorian said, turning to Quillian. “What matter did you wish to discuss?”

“You may not know this, but I was once an acquaintance of Fenris’s former master. Not a close acquaintance, by any means – but much closer than you were to him, I daresay.” Quillian was looking at him carefully. Dorian felt the tension in Fenris, but the elf managed to remain passive enough to keep up the act.

“I was much younger when Danarius owned Fenris,” Dorian said quietly. “In my later teens, I believe. And my father only occasionally attended his soirees. So no, I don’t think I ever officially met the man.” _Thankfully._

“As I expected,” Quillian replied. “Danarius would be pleased if he could see you now. But, I digress…I’m speaking with you now because Danarius did not have an heir. His next-of-kin departed to Antiva many years ago, and the man was seemingly so caught up in his experiments and studies that he never thought to make an official will. In addition, his death was rather…unexpected.” Quillian glared at Fenris, who let out a convincing whimper, though it probably pained him to do so. 

“Yes, yes,” Dorian said. “Danarius was infamous for his mysterious work. What’s your point, Quillian?”

“My _point_ , Dorian, is that Danarius’s entire estate and possessions – except his slaves, which were sold – remain in the hands of the Magisterium and have been gathering dust for years now. It is a shame for them to go to such waste. Thus, there has been much debate about who should own them. You may be pleased to know that your name has come up several times.”

Dorian gaped. “ _My_ name? Why?”

“When Danarius rose to power, he was young and ambitious and very, very clever. Just like you. You were mentored by Gereon Alexius, were you not? That man was truly a genius, and I have no doubt the two of you created marvelous things.”

Dorian remembered the time amulet, back in Redcliffe, and held back a shudder. Marvelous? Perhaps not.

“In addition, you may have been a bit of a pariah at first…but I believe you’re finally on the right path now, Dorian. You set yourself on the right path as soon as you captured and broke that murderous elf.” Quillian leaned closer, eyes bright. “I know what you want, Dorian Pavus. You want to be admired – no, you want to be _loved_.” Dorian’s breath caught. The scent of cloves and citrus smothered him. “You want the world to see your brilliance, and we can give you that. Your name will echo across the Imperium. I see a rising star in you, and it would be a shame if that star went to waste.”

Dorian swallowed. He tried to focus on the heat of Fenris next to him, for he feared that he would fall under the magister’s spell otherwise. Oh, it might not have been real magic…but it was working on him in its own poisonous, persuasive way. “What are you asking of me, Magister Quillian?”

“By now, I believe you might have guessed I am part of the Venatori, as is Titus and many others.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Dorian whispered. _Terrified, but glad._

Quillian smiled. There was a cold kind of joy in it. “Smart boy. We grow more powerful by the day, and yet…there are those who wish to destroy us.”

“Fools,” Dorian said. He hoped it sounded convincingly contemptuous.

“Unfortunately, they are not foolish,” Quillian sighed. “I fear they may be quite cunning. And so…we must do something about that, don’t you think? We believe that Danarius was in the middle of creating something very powerful, something which could benefit our cause and crush the opposition. And we believe it uses magic that you’re evidently quite familiar with – necromancy. You studied for a time in Nevarra, did you not, and have read the mortalitasi texts?”

Dorian nodded. “Yes, I have – I actually met with several Nevarran experts. Dare I say I’ve become quite proficient at necromancy? It is a fascinating branch of magic – dark, but fascinating.”

“Good. The experiment remains preserved in his estate – he had many ongoing experiments, but that one was the most intriguing, and so it was left alone. If you wish, you could take a look at it and see what you can decipher. We’ve had a very difficult time with it, but then again…none of us are seasoned necromancers.” Quillian chuckled. “I hope you understand that if you can aid us, you will be greatly rewarded. I could even put in a good word about you to the Magisterium…and Danarius’s estate might fall into new, more capable hands.” He gave Dorian a meaningful look. 

“That is a most generous offer,” Dorian admitted. “I…I think I should like to have a look at this experiment at some point. I’ll do anything I possibly can to help your…organization.”

“Excellent!” Quillian’s eyes crinkled up at the corners. “In that case, do give me a call whenever you feel up to it. And as for helping in other ways…” He lowered his voice, though there was nobody else around. “Titus’s ‘surprise’ for tonight is just a sample of what the Venatori have in store. Keep that in mind, young Pavus.” Then he clapped Dorian on the shoulder and left the mage and the elf alone, returning to the party without another word.

As soon as he was gone, Fenris stepped away from Dorian and leaned heavily against the banister, barely contained hatred filling his expression. “Danarius,” he growled, shaking his head. “I knew he’d come up eventually, though I had hoped…” He made a disgusted sound. “You can’t possibly be serious about continuing his experiment, mage.”

Dorian wrung his hands helplessly. “I don’t like it either, but in case you haven’t forgotten, I’m at their mercy for the moment! If I refuse, I’m not gaining their trust anytime soon. Besides…if I can figure out what this experiment is and how the Venatori plan to use it against us, we’ll be one step ahead of them.”

Fenris snorted. “Justify it all you like, but you’re just as bad as the rest of them. Death magic, blood magic, what’s the difference? All you mages are weak, and you’ll succumb to that weakness eventually.”

Dorian was quiet. He just looked at Fenris, at the fury in his eyes, the fierce lines of his brow and the harsh sharpness of his lips. How could something so angry be so beautiful? For a fleeting moment, he wondered if those lips were soft, and if they would give under his, parting to let him in. But he already knew the answer. 

“You really believe that?” he asked the elf after a long pause. “That I’m as bad as Quillian? As Danarius?”

Fenris’s brow furrowed. Then he said, “I do not think any mage could be as bad as Danarius.”

“Well,” Dorian muttered, “I suppose that’s something. Dorian Pavus: not as bad as Danarius. Thanks, Fenris.”

Fenris scrunched up his nose, confused. “That wasn’t really a compliment, mage.”

Dorian sighed. “Oh, I know. But I’ll take what I can get from you.”

Fenris just looked even more confused, and a tad suspicious. But before he could reply, a loud voice said from within the ballroom, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have for you today an extraordinary demonstration of the mysterious and macabre! Please, gather ‘round, and feast your eyes!”

Fenris and Dorian exchanged looks. “Titus’s surprise. We should see what it is,” Fenris said reluctantly. 

“Right then,” Dorian agreed. “Back to the act.”

Fenris only twitched a little when Dorian put his hand back on the elf’s shoulder and led him into the quickly gathering crowd. Quillian was near the front with the others, and Dorian went to stand with them but then thought better of it when he saw the silver altar being dragged out to the center of the circle. “Venhedis,” he cursed, hand dropping from Fenris’s back to clench into a fist at his side. 

He prayed he was wrong about what the ‘surprise’ was going to be, but his suspicions were confirmed when two struggling elves were dragged out of a side door and into the circle, their eyes wild and wide with terror, cries muffled by the primitive gags in their mouths. Four mages flanked them, each hooded, led by Titus himself, who did not bother to hide his face. The elves were shoved down onto the altar, which was shaped like a sort of basin meant to collect some kind of liquid. Dorian thought he was going to be sick.

The guests murmured amongst themselves, but they were excited, curious – not repulsed as they should have been. Titus addressed them with a raspy voice. “Tonight, my friends, we shall see the power that runs through the veins of even the lowest of the low.” He cast a pointed look at the sobbing elves, and the guests laughed. “We will get a glimpse of the other side, the world not so different from our own, full of beings we can control and use as we wish – if we are strong enough.” He lifted his staff – beautifully carved and inlaid with sapphires – and a wisp of golden light swirled from it, gathering above the crowd like a lantern and casting the skin of the elves in a sickly yellow tint. 

He moved to the side, and nodded to the hooded ones. “Begin,” he said.

The elves trembled. Strangely, Fenris did not. He was looking at Dorian, almost as if he were…worried about him? No. Fenris wasn’t worried about _him_ , of course – he was worried about the plan. He was worried Dorian was going to blow their cover. 

_You are fine,_ Dorian tried to tell himself. _Everything is fine._

But then they brought the knife down and the first elf’s throat was cut, like he was no more than an animal, a pig for slaughter. The other elf screamed and sobbed harder, closing her eyes. The blood poured, and Dorian’s wrists prickled with remembered sensation. He gritted his jaw, willing the memories to stay far, far away. The dying elf made a choked, wet noise and he had to press a hand to his mouth to stop himself from retching, breathing as deeply as he could. 

Fenris ducked his head discreetly and whispered into his ear, “You cannot leave, or they’ll see. We must stay, and watch.”

Dorian bit the inside of his cheek so hard it bled, which didn’t help, because now he could taste as well as smell the horrible metallicness. The hooded mages were chanting, phrases in Ancient Tevene that hurt his ears to listen to, because though he did not fully understand them he understood that they were wicked words of blood and death and power, things which so many of the people around him craved. The blood in the basin began to bubble, and then it started to glow a dark green, strange angular shapes forming, straining to grow, a low hum of energy filling the space. A long, twisted shadow was cast across the walls and Dorian realized something was trying to get through. Oh, Maker. They weren’t seriously trying to summon –

“It is not enough,” Titus declared. “It needs more. Again.” The second elf, too late, tried to jerk away, but then they brought the knife down and she too was going limp, the flush of her skin fading and the basin filling to the brim. The hooded ones kept chanting, and this time Titus joined them. The shadow on the walls swelled, and the shapes in the blood sharpened, the green light fizzling and reflecting off of every surface until something snapped, the balance tipped, and the light fractured into a million pieces.

Fenris’s lyrium was blazing, brighter than Dorian had ever seen it, and Dorian didn’t stop him when the elf shuddered unhappily and pressed closer, as if somehow that would ease whatever discomfort the blood magic was causing. Silently, Dorian cursed Danarius, and wished there was something he could do, some way to help, though he knew there was nothing. But then he had a thought…gratefully tearing his attention away from the damn rift forming several feet away, Dorian hesitantly placed his palm against the bare skin of Fenris’s arm, the energy of the lyrium almost irresistible. Almost. The elf twitched and narrowed his eyes. Dorian kept his hand there, determined. His magic hadn’t hurt Fenris so far, so maybe…as soon as his hand started to glow, Fenris tried to jerk away, eyes dark with betrayal and pain, and Dorian thought he’d made a huge mistake. _Goodbye, organs,_ he thought. Perhaps being magically fisted by a pretty elf was not the worst way to go.

Then the tension melted out of his body, the light in his lyrium dimming slightly, and he slumped against Dorian’s side in relief, eyelashes fluttering. Dorian moved to take his hand away but Fenris shook his head pleadingly, eyes half-lidded as he whispered, “Warm.”

Dorian stared at him, and relished the moment because he was pretty sure Fenris had just begged Dorian to keep touching him. It was an interesting reaction, to say in the least. He kept his hand there gladly, letting trickles of his magic flow freely through Fenris.

Back at the altar, Titus was chanting louder, sweat beading his brow. The shadow roared and the fractured light rushed towards it, giving it depth and making it real. “Bind it!” Titus shouted, and the hooded ones focused their chant on the no-longer-a-shadow, which was quickly solidifying into a humanoid shape wreathed in green smoke. The hooded ones dragged the demon away from the walls and into the center of the circle, where it solidified fully and hissed at the onlookers, its body a pale purple with a slim, feminine shape and two dark horns curling from its head. A thin tail lashed indignantly behind it. 

A desire demon. Wonderful. Out of all the demons they could’ve chosen, it had to be the most intelligent and deceitful one? The creature snarled and tried to seize the nearest mage, but it was kept in place as if trapped in an invisible box. It pouted and crossed its arms, eying Titus with an exasperated expression. “Don’t be silly,” it purred, the sound of its voice having an immediate effect on the audience. “You don’t want to lock me up in here, all alone!”

Dorian had had…dealings with desire demons in the past. They fascinated him in the same way necromancy did – he knew they were dangerous, yet he thought there was more to them than that. This particular desire demon didn’t seem keen to possess any of them – it just wanted to get out of here. He saw it looking at the basin of blood with disgust. There was definitely something wrong when a _demon_ saw the immorality in the situation.

Titus raised an eyebrow at the demon. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t want to lock you up. Not for long, anyway. But I need something from you in return.”

The demon rolled its eyes. “What?”

“Grant us a wish,” the magister wheedled, “one wish, and you’ll be freed.”

“One wish? Oh, but I don’t think you deserve that,” it said. “After all, you’ve been very rude so far…locking me up and such. I don’t grant wishes to rude men.” It tossed its head, turning to look at the audience. It licked its lips. “Ah, Tevinter…so many mages. So many _options_. And yet…all so rude.” Its gaze lingered on Dorian and Fenris, though perhaps it was just his imagination. “I’m afraid, _magister_ , that I will not be granting any wishes tonight. I’m simply not in the mood. Besides…your beloved dead wife would be so sad.” Then the desire demon’s form changed, shining like a mirage, and Dorian didn’t know who the magister saw, but his face turned white as a sheet. 

It was hard for him to concentrate on Titus, though, because when the demon looked at him, for just a second, it took the form of Fenris, smirking and ghostly, lyrium brands glowing and wreathing his bare body in mist that curled like a hundred serpents. Dorian stumbled back, shocked and ashamed, though he knew no one else had seen it – the demon appeared differently to each individual, changing depending on what they most wanted to see. That was what scared him.

Fenris gasped when Dorian let go of him, and then he was the one who looked ashamed, wrapping his arms tightly around himself and taking a step away from Dorian, eyes downcast. Dorian couldn’t even look at him, filled with guilt. Maybe Fenris was right. Maybe he was just as bad as the rest of them.

Magister Titus ended up killing the desire demon. Good riddance.

They found Krem again afterwards, and during the ride home he told them about some information Sparrow had uncovered regarding the Magrellan. He was in the middle of explaining when and where the next meeting would be when Dorian held up his hand and shook his head. “Not now, Krem,” he said. “Please.”

Krem stopped, eyes flicking from the drained Altus to the shamefaced elf, and cleared his throat, sitting back in the cushioned carriage seat with a thoughtful expression. It was only then that Dorian noticed the tiny dark bruise on Krem’s neck and the smear of lipstick on his jaw. He sighed, and looked out the window at the passing night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you all enjoy :)

Something was wrong with him.

Yes, that was it. That was the only explanation, Fenris decided – because if there wasn’t something wrong with him, then why hadn’t he stopped Dorian from using his damn magic on him? Oh, but it was worse than that – from a distance, Dorian’s magic felt warm, yes…but up close, literally _inside of him_ , his magic felt…good. No, no, he couldn’t even admit it to himself, because magic spoiled everything it touched. It had spoiled him; ruined him. But when Dorian touched him, it didn’t feel ruinous. It felt…it felt…

He wouldn’t say it. He couldn’t.

As soon as they returned to the Pavus mansion, Fenris fled to his room, wishing Dorian was drunk as usual so he would stop looking at him with such strange sorrow. Avexus moved as if to talk to him on his way upstairs, but he shook his head miserably, pushing the other elf away. Their last conversation still weighed heavily on his already strained mind and thinking of it now wasn’t helping at all. Fenris had sworn he would never let another mage sink their filthy claws into him – and yet, there he was, shaking all over and standing in the center of the silent room, biting his lip so hard he thought it might split, all because of that stupid Altus. _Fasta vass._

Fenris _knew_ the mage was attractive, he wasn’t _blind_ , but he’d seen many attractive mages (and many not-so-attractive ones too), and he’d managed to hate every single one of them. Maybe because they were the ones who’d used him during his time with Danarius, leaving him bloody and bruised and worthless when they were finished, somehow leaving him even emptier than before. Dorian had not done that.

Not yet.

*

After the disturbing blood ritual (Fenris had seen many, but they were all unpleasant), Fenris decided he preferred Quillian’s parties, though they were awful in their own way. Magister Quillian’s home was somewhat larger than Titus’s, and much more open to guests. Some took advantage of that, Dorian being one of them. Krem and Fenris would sneak off as often as they could to find Sparrow or other agents, leaving Dorian to fend for himself; but after the fifth party at Quillian’s, Dorian found entertainment elsewhere. Upstairs. With Rilienus. And every time they came back to the party, their hair slightly mussed and their eyes softer than usual, Fenris felt nauseous. No. Not nauseous. Jealous.

Oh, kaffas.

Dorian sank back into his pattern of drinking, which frustrated Fenris to no end. He drank when he didn’t have Rilienus; he drank when he did have Rilienus. 

_Master Dorian does not know what he wants._

Clearly.

Then again, neither did Fenris. Or so he told himself.

A month after they’d gone to that very first party, Krem went to meet with Sparrow (and probably to do other things with her which Krem would not discuss), leaving Dorian and Fenris with the usual group of loonies/Venatori. It wasn’t long before Fenris saw Dorian making eyes at Rilienus across the room, after which Dorian asked him to go ‘explore’ and as soon as Fenris left his side, he said his polite farewells and made the ascent to the second-floor bedrooms. 

Irritated, Fenris stalked away from the ballroom, not particularly in the mood to do some espionage. He was more in the mood to hit something with a sword really, really hard. Rilienus would do nicely. He huffed and skirted his way around a group of chattering women, whose noises increased in volume tenfold when he got near.

He winced. Not again.

“Oh, Fenris! Come here little rabbit, won’t you?” A female magister with tightly curled black hair and umber skin gestured at him, and he hunched his shoulders and went obediently. He hated this, but at least the women were less dangerous than the men at these parties. They just liked to…pet him. Mostly.

“Oh, Idetta, isn’t he lovely? In the stories, they make him sound so ugly and vicious, but he’s just adorable in real life.” Another woman leaned down and cooed at him, stroking his hair very gently. It was ridiculous, and he kind of wanted to scream, but instead he just batted his eyes and stayed still obediently. 

“So cute for a knife-ear.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Augusta – they’re all cute.”

“The lyrium really is beautiful. I thought it would be hideous, but it really is fine craftsmanship.”

“I wonder if we can make it glow?”

Fenris tensed. Sometimes they just petted him. And sometimes they did this.

The first woman, Idetta, snapped her fingers. They sparkled with frost, and he allowed his markings to flare at the slight irregularity in the air. A younger woman clapped, delighted. “I’m sure your master won’t mind if we play with you just a little?” Idetta asked innocently, the ice growing in her hands, eyes glittering.

Someone snickered. “I daresay his master plays with him quite enough.”

Fenris swallowed. _He’s not my master. He’s not my master. He’s not –_

He yelped when Idetta pressed her freezing hand to the side of his neck, his markings reaching full brightness instantly at the overload of magic. “How intriguing,” she murmured, seemingly oblivious to his pain. “There were rumors that Danarius used the lyrium in his skin as a lyrium potion of a sort. I wonder…” Fenris’s pulse spiked. No, no, no…she was right, Danarius had done that, and it hurt like nothing else. He didn’t want that, not ever again.

“Oh, leave him alone, Idetta,” one of the women said nervously. “I doubt the Pavus boy will be very pleased if you misuse his pet. Run along now, rabbit.”

Fenris took the out as quickly as he could.

But there was worse to come.

Frantically, he searched for Krem, but of course he was hidden away with Sparrow somewhere, damn him, and Fenris was a slave all alone in a villa full of mages, half of whom hated him and half of whom were intrigued by him. Neither were good things, and he felt more vulnerable than he had in a long time – he had no armor, no sword tonight, and even if he did…he could not use them. Slaves did not attack their superiors, no matter if they had cause to or not. 

Trying not to panic, he found himself back inside, in one of the halls lined with staircases that Dorian had gone up. It looked relatively empty, and he allowed himself to relax a little, resolving to find a quiet place upstairs to stay until the party was over. A safe place. Safer then down here, anyway. He was just about to start up the stairs when a hand caught his shoulder from behind, spinning him away from the steps and sending him crashing back against the wall, his neck cracking uncomfortably. A magister leered down at him, with an Altus at his side, each one with a hand holding him in place. Trapping him. 

He averted his eyes, aiming for docile and nonthreatening, but the magister snarled and forced him to look up. Fenris’s eyes widened when he saw the man’s face properly – Magister Santori, one of Danarius’s old friends. Well, he’d been younger then – but he’d aged badly and his hair was mostly gray now, his face worn and leathery from too much sun. And the man next to him…his son, Fenris realized. They both looked at him with the same carnal hunger, and his breath whistled through his teeth. 

“The little wolf finally came home,” Santori growled, hand moving to Fenris’s throat and tightening. “You’ve been very naughty while you were gone. Killing Danarius…I find that hard to believe. Especially now that I’ve seen you, I mean, look at yourself. You’re weak, just as broken and helpless as you were before. I wonder if you’re still as pretty…”

“Father,” his son muttered, “you promised I could have him. Do hurry up.”

Fenris’s eyes darted to the younger man, his body filling with adrenaline he could not use. He couldn’t fight back, or the secret would be out that he had never been broken, that this was all pretend. Except… _this_ was not pretend. This was real, and the pain when he let the mage have his way with him would be real, and the memories it brought back would be real, and the feeling of being nothing but a pretty shell to be used and discarded would be real. He blinked furiously, his markings glowing in a kind of half-hearted warning. Then the magister released him and the Altus grabbed his wrists, anchoring them above his head and stepping into his space and –

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Fenris’s eyes snapped open. He’d never been more relieved to hear that stupid voice. The Altus stepped away hurriedly, releasing his wrists, and Fenris saw Dorian glaring at the magister and his son from the staircase, making his way towards them with only a slight wobble in his step. Impressive, since Fenris was quite sure Dorian was completely wasted. The top few buttons of his vest were undone, and his hair was an awful mess, but in that moment Fenris was pretty sure he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Altus Pavus,” Magister Santori said with obvious disdain. “My apologies. We were simply –”

Dorian strode forward, shoving a hand forward and stabbing a finger viciously at the center of the magister’s chest. “You were not simply doing anything with him,” he retorted. “In fact, I believe you were simply walking away from Fenris and never, ever touching him again. Are we clear?”

The younger Altus looked terrified. Magister Santori just looked chagrined. “I…yes. Of course. We’ll…be on our way. Come.” His son scurried after him, and they left the hall in a hurry. Dorian turned to Fenris, and yes, he was definitely drunk. His face was flushed – whether from anger or alcohol, Fenris did not know – and Dorian stumbled when he walked closer, eyes fixed anxiously on him. 

“Are you alright?” he whispered. It came out a bit slurred, but Fenris got the gist, and he chuckled nervously, raking a hand through his hair. 

“Yes,” Fenris said. “Thank you,” he added as an afterthought. “They would have…ah.” He didn’t want to finish that sentence. 

Dorian’s gaze darkened. “No,” he said. “I wouldn’t let them.” And then, before Fenris could even ask what he meant, Dorian leaned in and kissed him.

Fenris’s lyrium brightened in response instantly, his body actually beginning to phase into his ghostlier form from the complete shock of the action, the feeling of Dorian’s body crushing him between it and the wall, and then…then he realized that somehow, he did not feel trapped. Strangely, he felt very free. So he let his eyes fall shut and he felt Dorian’s hand cupping his face so, so softly, fingertips barely touching skin, careful despite the boldness of the kiss; the way their mouths opened to each other almost immediately, Dorian’s lips and tongue warm and soft against his own. He tasted like liquor, yes, but something else, too – something rich and heady that made Fenris’s head spin. 

Unlike the other kisses he had been given in Tevinter, this one was not a claiming. It did not make him feel dirty and worthless. It made him feel wanted, because it was mutual, because it was Dorian, because though he hated himself for it he’d grown to like this damned mage, somehow. Sober, Dorian would probably not do this. In fact, Fenris thought, this might not ever happen again. So he threw himself into the kiss with all he had, fingers tangling in Dorian’s hair and moans falling from both of their lips when Dorian worked a thigh between Fenris’s legs, sweet friction right where he needed it. Dorian broke the kiss to draw in a deep breath, and Fenris marveled at him so close, close enough he could nearly count his eyelashes. 

“I see you’re insatiable, Dorian?”

Fenris’s skin prickled. Rilienus. Dorian backed away from Fenris, eyes still slightly unfocused and mouth rather pink as he glanced at the other mage. “Oh, what do you want?” he asked airily. “The show is over, I’m afraid.”

“Is it?” Rilienus asked, sidling up to Dorian with a glint in his eye. “I’m sure we could arrange something. I mean, I suspected the elf shared your bed, but…hm, I admit I never appreciated how pretty he is. So what do you say, Dorian? Shall we take him upstairs with us and have a little more fun?”

Fenris’s pleasure quickly turned to fear, as it so often did. 

But he needn’t have worried.

Dorian walked up to Rilienus, slowly, outwardly calm save for the way his jaw worked and the tendons stood out in his neck. Then the fire ignited on his fingertips, and Rilienus cursed when Dorian grabbed his collar, the tiny flames licking across the fabric leisurely. “Listen to me,” Dorian murmured. “Because I’m not going to say it again. Fenris is not yours.” _Fenris is not anyone’s._ “You try to touch him, you lose a hand, and that would be a damn shame because you do have such _wonderful_ hands, Rilienus.” Rilienus gulped, the fire nearing his throat. “So don’t fucking ask again.” He stepped away, extinguishing the flames with a flick of his wrist and leaving the cloth blackened and singed. Rilienus glowered at him, raising a hand that began to glow with blue light. Dorian rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “I think we both know which of us has more powerful magic. Unless you’d like to test that theory? Corpses are very resistant to ice, you know.”

Rilienus blanched and his hand fell back to his side limply. He shook his head and slowly left the hall. 

“You should stop sleeping with him,” Fenris said, surprised by his own brashness. Dorian was obviously surprised too, blinking at him in bewilderment. 

“What?”

“He’s a bad man,” Fenris muttered. “And I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like a lot of people, Fenris,” Dorian pointed out gently, though he sounded sad.

“I don’t,” Fenris agreed. “But I do like that you lit him on fire.”

Dorian barked out a nervous laugh. “Yes, well. I’ll probably regret that later.”

“I won’t.”

Dorian sighed, and suddenly he looked a lot less intoxicated and a lot more abashed. “I’m sorry, Fenris. About…I…I’m not drunk enough for this, it seems. But I was drunk enough to force myself on you –”

Fenris crossed his arms. “You did not,” he said.

Dorian sighed again, louder. “Fenris –”

“If you had,” Fenris said, “I would have held up my end of the promise and ripped your organs out.” Even as he said it, he wasn’t so sure he could’ve done it, but he tried to sound as convincing as possible. If not that, he would have done _something_ if he hadn’t welcomed the advance – and he most definitely would not have reciprocated. He was still a little unsure as to why he had reciprocated, but the longer he looked at Dorian, baffled and blushing, the more he wanted to do it again.

Dorian cleared his throat. “We…we should find Krem. The party’s almost over, anyway.”

Fenris scowled. “You can’t just pretend like this never happened –”

“I can damn well try!” Dorian shot back, voice trembling, and Fenris realized with surprise that the Altus was _afraid_. Of…of him? Of this? Fenris didn’t understand.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine.”

*

Except it wasn’t fine. 

The ride back to the estate was about ten times worse than the ride after Titus’s party. The tension was palpable, and Krem studiously avoided looking at either of them – Fenris glaring while trying (and failing) to forget how Dorian felt against him, Dorian hunched over and holding his head in his hands silently. As soon as the carriage stopped, Krem hopped out with some excuse about sharpening swords, and Dorian practically ran after him. Fenris watched him go for a moment before he made up his mind, and followed him swiftly. 

Dorian went as fast as he could, but before he could lock himself in his bedroom, Fenris caught up and yanked his sleeve hard, sending him stumbling off-balance with a curse. Dorian stared at him, color high in his cheeks. “What do you _want_ ,” he breathed.

“Stop sleeping with Rilienus,” Fenris told him. This time, it was not a suggestion. It was an order, and Dorian raised his eyebrows. 

“Alright,” he whispered. “Fine, I will. Now could you please let go of me?”

“I won’t let go,” Fenris said, determined. “Not unless you can tell me with complete honesty that you don’t want me.”

Dorian bit his lip. “Fenris…I can’t…you can’t –”

“I _can_ ,” Fenris growled, advancing on him until Dorian was the one pinned, his back hitting the closed door with a dull thud. “I am not some delicate, breakable thing, Dorian. And I am not a slave. So tell me – do you want me? Or not?”

Dorian looked down at him from dark, half-lidded eyes, Fenris’s face reflected in them like tiny silver moons, and then he wordlessly tipped his head forward and they were kissing again, easy as anything. Dorian’s touch was hesitant, cautious, but Fenris bit down on his lower lip and then everything was messier, lips sliding and hands scrabbling at each other, until Fenris found the doorknob and they tumbled into Dorian’s bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them and falling into the bed with urgency.

Fenris slid against the silk sheets, the layers between them stifling as they rolled, Dorian gaining the upper hand without trying very hard, breaking the kiss in favor of undoing the buttons and buckles of his party clothes. Fenris tugged at the hem of his pants with irritation, and Dorian’s breath hitched when he finally succeeded, revealing bare skin instead of smallclothes. Fenris gave him a look. “Easier access,” Dorian mumbled, and Fenris snorted, shoving the robes and vest and ridiculous contraption of clothing off of the mage’s body. He peered down at Fenris with a smirk. 

Fenris found he rather enjoyed being fully clothed while the mage was completely bare – it gave him an odd kind of power. Gracefully, he flipped their positions until he was the one kneeling between Dorian’s thighs, one hand slowly trailing down from jaw to chest, resting on the muscle directly over his heart. There was a kind of soft malice in the gesture, especially when his markings flickered at the touch of lyrium to mage. Dorian watched him but did not stop him, nor did he try to touch Fenris, his hands hovering uncertainly by his sides as Fenris’s hand traveled lower, nails scratching over a taut stomach and defined hipbones, brushing across the carefully trimmed line of dark hair leading down. Fenris tilted his head. Dorian’s cock looked like it had before, in the bath – thick and appealing – but he liked it even more now because it was hard, arching up and begging to be touched.

Fenris didn’t indulge him. 

Instead, he sat back on his heels and unbuttoned his tunic, eyes never leaving Dorian’s. Part of him disliked the strange, slow intensity of it all – maybe it should’ve been quick and fumbling instead. But it was worth the wait for the strangled sound Dorian made as he shrugged the tunic off and started on the laces of his breeches, oddly calm, a slow thud of arousal starting in his belly just from the heat and heaviness of Dorian’s stare. The mage’s gorgeous body helped, certainly.  
The air was cold on his skin, especially when he kicked out of his breeches and smallclothes, and he found himself longing for Dorian’s warmth. _Stop it._  
“Well,” Dorian said breathily, eyes raking over him and settling somewhere near his groin, “I must admit, I thought elves were supposed to be…er, _petite_ down there. You, clearly, do not fall under that stereotype.”

Fenris huffed. “Oh, shut up.” But secretly, he was pleased.

Dorian bit his lip, the mirth leaving his expression. “You’re beautiful,” he said quietly, sincerely, and Fenris hoped the darkness hid his red face. It was not the first time he’d been called such, and certainly not the first time by a Tevinter mage, but it was the first time the words made him feel something other than shame. 

He didn’t know how to reply to that, so instead he just crawled over Dorian, their legs tangling, and murmured, “Do you want me to fuck you?” 

Dorian grinned. “Maker, _yes_ , Fenris.” He shifted. “How do you want me?”

“Uh…” Fenris blinked. “I don’t care,” he said lamely.

Dorian shrugged. “Well, in that case, this works for me,” he declared, and pulled Fenris down for a third kiss, hand curving against the back of his neck in a gesture that should have felt possessive but was somehow just comforting. It was very confusing, and to take his mind off of it Fenris rocked his hips down against Dorian’s, gasping and shuddering at the sensation. It had been a long time. Too long. He couldn’t stop, lips leaving Dorian’s mouth in favor of his neck, and Dorian squirmed underneath him, encouraging, already sweating and so, so hard. 

“Oil in the nightstand drawer,” Dorian whispered, breath shockingly hot against Fenris’s ear, making him groan and stretch out until he reached the drawer, yanking on it and nearly spilling the contents all over the floor. “Patience,” Dorian snickered, and Fenris bit him sharply at the juncture of neck and shoulder before snatching up the bottle of oil, uncapping it and immediately wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell.

“Kaffas, what _is_ that?”

Dorian frowned. “It’s lavender, I believe.”

Fenris stared at him. “You put lavender oil up your ass?”

Dorian folded his arms, looking rather put out. “Why not? It’s a natural antiseptic and soothes irritation –”

Fenris couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, entire body shaking with mirth. He tried to muffle it against Dorian’s chest, unsuccessfully. Dorian poked his ribs. “Yes, yes, I made you smile and now I’ve made you laugh. I’m incredible, I know. Now can we get on with the ‘lavender oil up my ass’ part?”

“Patience,” Fenris wheezed, his chest light and tight all at once. “I need a moment.”

“I’m not a patient man, truthfully,” Dorian informed him, and took the bottle from Fenris, dipping his fingertips into it and reaching between them. Fenris startled and all laughter ceased when Dorian’s hand found his cock, wrapping around firmly and drawing choked, strained noises from his throat. In reply, Fenris scraped his teeth across Dorian’s collarbones, which made Dorian’s cock twitch against his belly, everything becoming slick and hot far too fast. It didn’t help when Dorian’s slippery fingers found their real mark, pushing inside and twisting, knuckles bumping against Fenris and making him groan. He was unable to look away from Dorian’s face – the blissful ‘o’ of his lips, eyes squeezed shut and brows furrowed in concentration. 

Part of him wanted to feel that same pleasure. But that was not something he gave to just anyone, and definitely not to Dorian. Not tonight. 

Dorian sighed, rolling his hips and stroking a hand along Fenris’s flank. Fenris leaned closer, cock nudging against his inner thigh, questioning. Dorian nodded tightly. “Yes,” he whispered. “Please do.” He took his fingers away with a low whine and reached for Fenris again, slicking him with more oil before lifting his hips needily. It was an invitation if Fenris had ever seen one, so he lined up, head bowed over Dorian’s body as he pressed in, lyrium lines igniting as soon as he did. He cursed, teeth gritted as his hips began to move of their own accord, Dorian arching up to meet him with a low groan, head falling back on the pillow. His legs wrapped around Fenris’s waist, pulling him in closer, tighter, deeper, and Fenris let himself go the moment their lips touched. Dorian whimpered into his mouth and threw an arm around his shoulders, dragging him down and keeping him close. The markings flashed brighter, but there was no discomfort in it. Just overwhelming sensation wherever Dorian touched him, which seemed to be almost everywhere. Almost.

It was late, and the rest of the household was probably asleep, but that didn’t seem to dissuade Dorian from being as loud as he possibly could. Fenris growled and kissed him harder to make him shut up, but it was really only half-successful in the end. 

Dorian pawed clumsily at his face, his neck, running fingertips across scar and skin alike, murmuring things that didn’t make any sense, things that Fenris didn’t want to hear. Not from him, not from this damned mage writhing under him like he was dying for it. Fenris could feel him, hot and hard against his hip, and he felt the way Dorian trembled when he took him in hand, twisting his fingers just the right way, the way he’d been trained to do so long ago. The mage tightened around him, fingers clawing at his back and skin shining with sweat, and then he was coming with a helpless moan, teeth clashing when they tried to kiss again. 

Dorian’s chest heaved, his spent body slack and sated, and Fenris rolled off of him, onto his back, looking at the ceiling. His own arousal was easy to ignore. He’d ignored it so many times in the past, after all.

Dorian mumbled unhappily at the loss of warmth and nudged him. “I’m fairly certain you’re not done.”

Fenris eyed him warily. “It’s fine,” he said. “You don’t need to –”

Dorian yawned and sat up, trailing his hand up Fenris’s tense thigh. “But I want to.”

Fenris swallowed, eyes flicking away from him and mouth tightening. “Fine. But it might take a while.”

Dorian sighed contentedly and kissed his hip, making him jump a little. “Good. I like a challenge.”

Fenris’s lips parted. “What are you – _oh_.” Dorian licked around the head of his cock, almost daintily, definitely teasing, sinking farther down little by little, fitting his hand around the base. Fenris gripped the sheets violently, back arching as his hips tried to follow the wet heat. _Too long_ , Fenris thought blurrily. _It’s been far too long._

Dorian worked up into a rhythm, head bobbing and tongue flicking against the underside in a way that left Fenris panting and throwing a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out. Unlike Dorian, he had no wish to wake up everyone. But it was so, so good, and when Dorian pulled off to mouth at his inner thigh he twitched petulantly. Although, that felt pretty wonderful too, and when Dorian’s hand kept stroking him he forgave him for it.

“You really do have these all over,” Dorian mumbled, kissing over the markings that curled over his hips and swirled down just above his cock like intricate silvery vines. He hesitated. “Do they hurt?”

Fenris shivered and shook his head. “No,” he whispered. He didn’t want to elaborate.

Dorian, speculatively, licked one of them. Fenris jolted. “Kaffas, don’t do that,” he snapped, though the way his cock jumped said otherwise. Dorian noticed, but shrugged and didn’t do it again, instead kissing lightly at them, following the lines up to Fenris’s chest and sliding an open mouth over his nipples, lapping at the jut of his collar and nibbling at the soft spot under his jaw – not enough to mark but enough to make Fenris squirm.

“I have a question,” Dorian purred, breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. “Is it true, what they say about elf ears?”

Fenris glowered at him. “I’m not answering that question.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Dorian replied before kissing the tip of one and nuzzling his face against Fenris’s neck. Fenris sighed, enjoying the touch despite himself, running a hand through Dorian’s hair. He didn’t realize he was rubbing himself off against Dorian until the mage laughed and said, “Nearly forgot about that,” and slid back down, taking him deeper than before in one movement that made Fenris curse and tighten his grip on Dorian’s head, fingers slipping and scratching through the dark curls. He couldn’t even look at Dorian – after only ten seconds of watching the mage’s swollen, used mouth and seeing the head of his cock pushing against the inside of Dorian’s cheek, he was already on the edge. 

Then Dorian slipped a hand under him, and for a moment Fenris panicked, but he just guided Fenris’s hips up, fingers resting carefully at the small of his back, relaxing his throat and letting Fenris fuck his mouth. The mage gave no resistance, and when Fenris gasped out a warning he hummed and worked him through it, his dark eyes lit up by the lyrium’s flare. 

He was so beautiful.

Fenris let his climax carry him away, leaving him floating somewhere in the hush of the night, sheets and skin warm and soothing against him, a low voice asking something, a broad hand caressing his hair, uncertain. Soft lips, damp cloth, the smell of lavender.

Fenris fell asleep.

*  
Everything’s cold, but he’s grown used to it. He can’t even feel it anymore; he’s made himself numb. So numb. It’s easier. He’s kneeling, waiting, for…someone. Something? Punishment. He flinches. What did he do? He was good, he thinks. Wasn’t he? But no, there is always something wrong, some fatal flaw that his master sees. And his master knows best, of course.

The room is empty, small, dark. A cell? His heart flutters. What did he do?

Footsteps, faint but heavy outside. His ears go back, his body tenses. He knows. It’s time. 

But what did he do?

His master’s frame towers in the doorway, shadow spilling across the stone floor and making him feel small in comparison. He is small. He is less. He is nothing. The shadow moves, and he bows his head, ashamed. “I am sorry,” he whispers, before remembering that he is not supposed to speak without permission. Fear fills him, and his master’s disapproval is palpable. He cowers. 

“You thought you could escape me?” his master asks, fury laced in every word. He whimpers. “You thought you could kill me? Foolish boy.”

Kill him? He freezes. Wait. Yes, he…he killed his master. He was dead, Fenris made sure of it. He blinks, looks down at the chains on his wrists and snarls. “No!” he shouts, struggling to his feet. His body is bare, thin and bruised, but he has had worse. “You’re not real,” he says. “You’re gone.”

“Oh, my little wolf,” his master purrs, cruel eyes shining and gnarled hand wrapping around his neck, “I will never leave you.” He taps his head. “I’m here, you see. Always.”

Fenris awoke with a gasp, soaked in sweat, Dorian peering blearily at him. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

Fenris looked at him with bewilderment, the memories of last night coming back in an upsetting wave. But before he could reply, the door opened, and one of the maids came in. The slave named Brina. “Master Dorian, there is a letter for –” She stumbled over her words when she saw Fenris, and he stared back at her, horrified. Dorian was silent, for once in his life. Brina blinked and continued. “There is a letter for you waiting in the parlor, Master Dorian. It’s from your father.”

Dorian cursed quietly. “Thank you, Brina,” he muttered. “You’re dismissed.”

She curtsied and left, but not without looking back at Fenris. There was no mistaking the betrayal in her eyes. _It’s not what you think,_ he wanted to say, but it was exactly what she thought. He was a damn mage’s pet, just like before, and he scrambled out of the bed in a panic, snatching up his clothes.

“Fenris,” Dorian said, but he sounded defeated, resigned. Like he already knew this would happen.

Dorian didn’t try to stop him from leaving. Fenris didn’t know what he would’ve done if he had.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry for the wait! But I'm back now, and hopefully this will be a double update today, as chapter 7 is nearly done. Thanks for hanging in there, and enjoy!
> 
> *warnings for frequent mentions of rape, particularly in this chapter.
> 
> Magister Ignis is based off of one of my Inquisitors, Adria Trevelyan. You can find a screenshot of her here: http://sta.sh/0ca6lye99dc

When Fenris was gone, Dorian sat up, groaning and rubbing his eyes. Brina shouldn’t have seen that – surely she would tell all the other slaves now. No wonder Fenris had left in such a panic. Dorian had no right to feel as disappointed as he did – he’d gotten to have that damned, beautiful elf for one night and that was more than he deserved. Still…he was a little put out by the whole thing. And more than a little sore, he quickly discovered when he stretched and stood. But he was glad for the ache – it would help him to remember, at least a little longer. 

Once in the bathroom, he discovered he’d have more than just that to remember Fenris by – his neck had at least three rather hefty bruises blooming on the skin. He reached up to heal them and then paused. He didn’t _want_ to heal them. Oddly enough, he liked seeing them and knowing Fenris put them there, as if marking him. It was a strange feeling. Well, high collars and scarves it was, then.

The sunlight that filtered in through the windows and curtains was too bright, and Dorian’s head pounded – he didn’t even want to know how much he’d had to drink. Enough to think that kissing Fenris was an okay thing to do, apparently.

“Kaffas,” he hissed as he remembered that particular detail. Fenris had nearly been assaulted and Dorian had decided that was a good time to make a move? “What is _wrong_ with you?” he asked himself, raking a hand through his hair and glaring at his pillow-creased face. Then again…Fenris hadn’t stopped him. He would’ve stopped Dorian if he didn’t want it, right? Dorian bit his lip, and decided to take a contemplative bath before braving the letter his father had apparently sent. 

The contemplative bath turned into him remembering Fenris’s soft lips against his, the way he’d arched and writhed helplessly underneath him, the practiced grind of his slim hips, the entrancing glow of his tattoos and how the lyrium pulled at his magic like a magnet, tempting him to touch. “You are a horrible person,” Dorian told himself after he’d finished jerking off. “Horrible.”

But still, the memories lingered.

*

It must have been nearly noon, for the household was already wide-awake, slaves darting past him with nods of their heads, doing…whatever it was they did, exactly. The door to Fenris’s room was locked tight, but Krem was leaving his room about the same time as Dorian, yawning and pulling on a pauldron. For one terrible moment, Dorian thought Krem was going to comment on…well, whatever he might have heard last night (Dorian had soundproofed his bedroom years ago, though he doubted the spell still remained), but the mercenary just yawned again and asked, “You and Fenris arguing again?”

Dorian blinked. “Er…what? I mean. Why do you say that?”

Krem rolled his eyes. “After the party last night? The elf looked like he wanted to strangle you.”

Dorian winced. “That seems a bit…harsh.” _He probably should have strangled me._

Krem raised an eyebrow.

“Alright, alright,” Dorian muttered. “Yes, he was…upset. But I don’t know why –”

“You ditched him again, didn’t you?” Krem sighed. “Just a thought, Dorian, but maybe leaving an infamous slave on his own at a huge party isn’t such a great idea.”  
Dorian folded his arms. Unfortunately, Krem had a point. “Well, true, but where were you? I thought you and Fenris were supposed to work together.”

Krem frowned. “I was with Sparrow. She was giving me information.”

Dorian snickered. “I doubt that was the only thing she was giving you.”

“Watch it, Pavus,” Krem grumbled. 

Dorian batted his eyes, mock-innocent. “What? I’m certain you’re keeping it very professional, Krem. Anyway, did she tell you anything of import?”

Krem nodded. “Actually, yeah. You remember when Quillian told you about Danarius’s creepy abandoned mansion and the mysterious necromancy project he had going on in there? Well, Sparrow has been asking around since then – turns out a couple of Danarius’s old slaves were sold to Quillian. They work in the kitchens or something now, but…with Danarius they were…” Krem cleared his throat. “Let’s just say they were closer to Danarius than they are to Quillian.” Dorian grimaced. He didn’t particularly like to think about Danarius and what he’d done to his slaves.

What he’d done to Fenris.

_Stop it._

“So they had information about this little project of his, is what you’re saying?” Dorian prompted. “That would be lovely if they did, since I’m not too keen on just waltzing up to the place with a pack of Venatori without having any idea what I’m getting myself into. Quillian was…suspiciously vague.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m telling you this,” Krem replied. “Because you’re gonna want to check this out as soon as possible, and hopefully find a way to screw it up so that they can’t use it.” Krem shook his head. “Sparrow’s contacts didn’t know much, but…they said it was some kind of artifact or machine run on spirit energy. And Danarius never quite got it working, but he tested it a few times. On slaves.”

Dorian swallowed. “And…what happened to the slaves? I’m assuming nothing good.”

Krem sighed. “They came back…different. Like…you know how whenever you use those purple skull spell things, it drives people mad with fear temporarily, makes them all panicked?”

“My horror spell?” Dorian corrected.

“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, they were sort of like that, but the effect was permanent. Most of them were hysterical, others pretty much shut down like they’d been turned Tranquil, and some of them tried to kill themselves. So whatever that thing does, or whatever it was supposed to do…” Krem frowned. “It’s bad, and you’ve gotta get rid of it. If the Venatori figure out how it works, and make it on a larger scale…”

“They could drive all their enemies to insanity. Yes, I understand your concern, Krem.” Dorian tilted his head. “I wonder how Danarius managed to bind spirit magic to an inanimate object so completely…although I’m sure it required a mage to operate it, I can’t imagine how it could function otherwise –”

Krem rolled his eyes. “Dorian. Focus, yeah? We can’t let those bastards get this thing. Smash it with a rock, if you have to.”

“And how am I supposed to explain that to them?!” Dorian exclaimed. “They’re asking me to help them fix it, not destroy it right in front of their eyes!”

“You’re smart, right?” Krem muttered. “I’m sure you can figure something out.”

“I’m _booksmart_ ,” Dorian grumbled to himself as the mercenary left for some afternoon sword training. “Not the same thing, Krem.”

Obviously, he wasn’t truly smart, or he wouldn’t be limping downstairs right now thinking about long fingers and glittering eyes. 

*

Once in the parlor, Dorian stared at the letter in his father’s handwriting with shock and more than a little dismay. Avexus was seated in the chair across from him, with Brina and Lanari standing off to the side. Lanari was looking at him with a worried expression, but Brina kept her head down, cheeks still tinged pink. 

“I don’t understand,” Dorian repeated dumbly, shaking his head. “My father is passing ownership of this estate to me? _Why?_ ”

Avexus looked at him sympathetically. “It is not my place to question your father’s motives, Master Dorian. However…it may be due to your, ah…unexpected rising popularity in the Magisterium, among other social circles.”

Brina and Lanari exchanged glances.

Dorian wrung his hands. “But…if I own the estate, that means…”

Avexus bowed his head. “Yes. You also own all of us, Master Dorian. You know we’re happy to serve.”

Dorian made a supremely frustrated sound. “Are you? Are you really happy?”

Avexus blinked. “Master…your family is far better than most. We know we are fortunate.”

“But are you happy?” Dorian pressed, well aware he was crossing a line. Several lines, probably. But in that moment, he didn’t care. He’d never actually owned a slave of his own, much less several dozen of them. He’d never wanted to own slaves. But thanks to his dear father’s newest gift, there he was, a rising magister in the making. Kaffas. “Please, answer me.”

Lanari spoke up, her voice sweet and lilting, but full of hesitance. “Master Dorian, I cannot speak for all of us, only myself, but I agree with Avexus. And…and many of us will be glad that you are our new master. We watched you grow up, Master, and we watched you…” She flinched a little at the memory. “We watched you leave. You have always treated us well, Master. I am happy now that you’ve returned.”

Dorian’s shoulders slumped a little, some of the tension leaving him. “I don’t want to be anyone’s master,” he admitted quietly.

All three slaves stared at him with equal parts confusion and disbelief.

Dorian took a deep breath. Avexus furrowed his brow, the concern in his expression terribly genuine. Lanari and Brina looked much the same. He had known them all for years – Avexus had literally been there since he was born, and the head maids had been more like nannies to him when he was a child. They had cared for him, protected him, served him without a single complaint, with what could almost be called fondness. They had done this long before he was a powerful mage with deviant behavior…and they had continued to do so even then. 

Three and a half years ago, on that fateful night, it had been Brina who gave him proper bandages for his wrists, Lanari who snuck him food for his journey, and Avexus who left the door unlocked. At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. He’d just figured they were loyal slaves. But…he had not been their master then. If they had been loyal slaves, they would have kept him there. They would have let his father carry out that blasted ritual. And Dorian didn’t even want to know how different things would be now if they had.

So, with this in mind, he made his decision.

“I’m going to tell the three of you something,” he said, “but you must swear to keep it a secret. For now.”

The three elves nodded. “We swear, Master.”

Steeling himself and hoping he wasn’t making a huge mistake, Dorian started. “Have you ever heard of the Red Crown?”

*

It took a good deal of time to explain things to them, and by the time he was done, they were all comically speechless and glassy-eyed. Then Avexus’s gaze sharpened and he said, “You are putting yourself in great danger, Master Dorian.”

How very expected. Avexus was a mother hen, honestly. But he was a correct mother hen, in this case. “Yes,” Dorian replied with a shrug. “I’m rather good at that, aren’t I? Anyway…I think it’s worth the risk. Besides, I ought to stop blathering on about how I’m going to change things and actually do it, don’t you think?”  
Avexus gave him a small, tentative smile, and dipped his head. “An excellent choice, Master Dorian. Although, may I say, your ‘blathering’ can be quite inspiring.”

“Why, thank you.”

Lanari piped up. “I’m glad Fenris is…free.” She said the word like it was something precious. To her, he realized, it was. “He came back of his own free will, to…to help us?” Dorian nodded, and she smiled.

Brina said nothing, but her expression had become thoughtful.

“Right, then,” Dorian said, standing. “Remember – it’s a secret for now.”

“For now?” Brina questioned.

“For now.” Dorian didn’t elaborate, because the plan forming in his head was really too convoluted to even attempt to explain. “And…I never thanked you all for helping me after that, ah…dreadful incident years ago. So. Thank you.”

“Of course,” they murmured, and Dorian was glad they didn’t bother to tack on a ‘master’ at the end of it. 

Dorian smiled, though it faded when he remembered what Krem had told him. Time to follow up on Quillian’s offer. “You’re dismissed,” he told them, and as they hurried off, Dorian paused when Brina was about to leave. “Brina, wait,” he said, tone harsher than he meant, and the youngest elf froze midstep, turning back to look at him warily. It was hard to miss the fear in her eyes. Even after everything he’d just told her, the expectation of punishment was so ingrained in her that she couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry,” he said, her fear becoming bewilderment. “I just…wish to speak with you for a second. Please.”

Brina nodded curtly, stepping back into the room. “Alright, Master.” She closed the door behind her, and cringed when it clicked shut.

Dorian decided he might as well just be blunt about it. “Have you told anyone about me and Fenris?”

The tips of her ears turned red. “No,” she said. “It…it isn’t my business, Master. I know that.”

Dorian pursed his lips. “To be quite honest with you, that was probably the only time Fenris will ever share my bed. Perhaps that puts your mind at ease?” Brina turned redder and he sighed. “Think whatever you will of me, Brina. But please don’t, ah…spread rumors, for Fenris’s sake. He’s going to hate me enough as it is.”

Her face softened slightly. “Master, I doubt he hates you. But I will not say anything, you have my word. I apologize if I seemed…judgmental, Master. It is just that…” She hesitated.

“What is it?”

“I have heard stories,” she murmured. “Stories about his old master and what…what happened to Fenris. What he made Fenris do. I was just…afraid, Master. Afraid that maybe that was happening to him again.”

“Never,” Dorian replied with feeling, and Brina looked a bit surprised, but also relieved. “Maybe he was a dog then, but he has become a real wolf now. I think he always was, deep down.”

Brina tilted her chin up, just a little, carefully defiant. “Maybe he is not the only wolf.”

Dorian smiled at her. “Maybe.”

*

Fenris still couldn’t believe this was happening. 

Yet there he was, sitting dutifully beside Dorian in a carriage with Magister Quillian across from him. The countryside rattled past, sweeping fields of amber grain and acres of green farmland, most of it connected to estates that loomed in the distance. Minrathous was a dark tangle of spires far behind them, and Fenris couldn’t believe he actually _missed_ it now. It was certainly preferable to where they were going.

Danarius’s estate was past even the outskirts of the capital, through the Valarian Fields to the west, nestled among the peaks of the High Reaches. He’d had a house in the city, of course, for political dealings and smaller parties and such, but his estate was where he (and Fenris) had spent most of the time. 

Danarius had never called it an estate – he preferred ‘villa,’ and perhaps the word was more appropriate. It was less of a single entity and more of a collection of buildings and land all tied together by the central mansion. As a slave, Fenris had never truly grasped the extent of his master’s wealth, but now, as the carriage began its trek up the base of the mountains, it was impossible to ignore. Other magisters had smaller villas/estates/what have you along the lower hills and valleys, but only Danarius had been rich and daring enough to live in the mountains themselves. 

Now, on the cusp of summer, the mountain pass was lush and easy to traverse. But Fenris remembered the winters. The cold had been cruel, snow settling deeply over the land and killing the crops, making food among the slaves scarce. As a child and young teenager, he faintly recalled being hungry and huddling with his sister and mother for warmth, praying the deadly chill wouldn’t work its way into their quarters. His mother had been an agrarian slave, so they’d lived in a long building parallel to the fields. It had little insulation, and a few slaves had succumbed to frostbite every year. But he hardly remembered that.

It was far easier to remember the winters after that, after the lyrium had been carved into him, after he’d become treasured by his master and hated by his peers. He had never spent his winters in discomfort then – not discomfort from the cold, anyway. It had been a different kind of discomfort. The memories were blurry – he had worked hard to make them so – but he couldn’t forget the heat of the fireplace in Danarius’s bedroom, the stifling, plush blankets surrounding him, the potion his master had forced down his throat that made his whole body burn until he was pliant and begging and –

Dorian accidentally jostled him as the carriage went over a bump, and he was knocked out of his thoughts. Thankfully. The two mages were chattering on and on about something Fenris couldn’t bother to try to understand. He disliked being in such close proximity with either of them – though it had been only a week or so since the Mistake had happened with Dorian, the mage hadn’t mentioned it at all, nor made any attempts to make it happen again. That was fortunate for him, because if he did, Fenris would have…well, he didn’t know what he would do, actually. Which was not good.

As for Quillian, the magister’s energy set him on edge. There was something distinctly different about his magic when compared to Dorian’s, and he didn’t like it. It was…heavier, more intense, prickling at his skin like tiny thorns. In such a small space, the feeling was magnified. He just hoped Quillian wouldn’t actually use any spells here, or he might end up embarrassing himself by clinging to Dorian and his stupid, comforting magic. He scowled. 

“So, who else will be coming on this little adventure?” Dorian asked the magister, continuing their conversation though he looked rather reluctant to. He had a book in his lap – Fenris squinted to make out the title. He thought it said something about flying cows, but that seemed unlikely. 

Quillian responded with more enthusiasm. “Oh, just three others – Magister Sinclair, Magister Valerio, and Magister Ignis.”

Fenris only recognized Sinclair’s name, but Dorian leaned forward with interest. “Magister Ignis? I wasn’t aware she was…involved in all of this. She’s quite young, is she not?”

“Yes, Adrianna Ignis is a prodigy in every respect,” Quillian murmured. “She was thrust into her position of power after the…unexpected death of her parents last year. But since then, she’s shown great promise. She is attending this particular meeting because of her recent studies of necromancy and rift magic. Her knowledge may prove useful, though she hasn’t studied it nearly as in-depth as yourself, Altus. But she is eager to provide whatever assistance she can.”

Dorian dipped his head. “It’s always a pleasure to meet a fellow academic.” Fenris resisted the urge to snort. Academic? He had no doubt this Magister Ignis studied magic only for the power she could gain, with little regard to gaining actual wisdom from it. 

“Indeed,” Quillian agreed. Then he glanced out the window and said, “Ah, it seems an hour has passed already. We’ve nearly arrived at our destination.”

Fenris didn’t want to look, but it was hard to ignore the sprawling array of dark buildings looming in the distance, the mountain road leading straight to the largest one. Fenris shivered. He’d once swore never to step foot in this place again.

It seemed he would be breaking that promise today.

*

Fenris had memorized the grounds of the villa like the back of his hand, though Quillian seemed familiar enough with it. They met Sinclair and Valerio at the gates – a daunting arch of wrought iron capped with silver – and waited a short time for the mysterious Ignis. It was surprising when she did arrive, for she did so not in a carriage but on horseback. Well, sort of. Her mount had once been a horse, but now it was closer to carrion – a dark beast of rotting flesh and dead eyes presumably kept on its feet by a spirit bound inside of it. It was unnatural and Fenris kept well away from it.

Dorian, on the other hand, was fascinated by both the not-horse and its rider. Magister Ignis was in fact very young – barely in her twenties, Fenris would guess. Her skin and hair were a few shades darker than Dorian’s, standing out against bright hazel eyes lined with smudged kohl. She greeted them in a cool, clear voice filled with self-assurance, her scarlet and gold robes swirling around her as she dismounted. The staff on her back was topped with a skull that gleamed with an unsettling red light. A corruption rune, he guessed. He backed away even further.

“My apologies for the late arrival,” she said, throwing her hood back and stroking her not-horse’s decaying nose. “Rose is a work in progress.”

“You named it Rose?” Dorian chuckled. “I would say it doesn’t smell anything like flowers, but remarkably, it doesn’t smell like anything at all. How did you manage that?”

She shrugged with a little smirk. “The spirit possessing it is a very strong one – Valor, I believe. I just made a few adjustments in the binding. Rose’s decomposition process is permanently stopped, you see. Thus, no smell.”

“I told you she was proficient in such magic,” Quillian told Dorian.

Magister Ignis’s eyes widened. “Oh! _You_ are Dorian Pavus?”

He gave a little bow. “The one and only.”

She grinned. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Altus. Now…shall we see what all this fuss is about? Quillian, have you uncovered anything new about this intriguing invention?”

Quillian shook his head regretfully. “Only that it is very, very powerful,” he replied. “I would suggest we all take care. I find it unlikely that this invention is the only one Danarius left behind.”

Fenris took a deep breath as the gates opened.

*

“Danarius would have benefited from an interior decorator, don’t you think?” Dorian commented as the five mages and one uncomfortable elf made their way through the tangle of corridors and occasional antechamber. Ignis snorted in agreement. “Did no one tell him that sometimes there is such a thing as too much velvet?” Dark red and purple velvet drapes had been hung from every available window and almost every hall, interspersed by odd things in glass cases and gilded picture frames containing abstract paintings that must’ve cost a fortune. 

Quillian raised his staff higher, its tip glowing brightly with veilfire to light their way. “I don’t think anyone dared to tell Danarius when enough was enough,” he pointed out. “Besides, it used to be even worse. Marble statues everywhere, likenesses of himself and some shrines to Dumat…the Magisterium did repossess much of it. But there are still…remains.”

They stepped out into a vast open space – a ballroom, Fenris thought dimly, eyes sliding towards the grand staircase, imagining it as it had been before – strung with lights and perfumed garlands, lined with slaves offering food, drink, and their own bodies. But his place had never been among them. He had stood alongside his master at the place of honor…the massive ironbark table on the far side of the room was covered in a thick layer of dust, the chairs surrounding it standing silently like dark sentinels.

Unwillingly, he glanced at the other side of the room, where an altar of solid obsidian lay. Its surface was polished and smooth, but up close Fenris knew from experience that it was covered in old stains. A tremor went through him. He didn’t want to be here, in this graveyard of unwelcome memories he’d tried so hard to escape. He half-expected Danarius to come down the stairs at any moment, arms outstretched mockingly, though that was impossible. He’d felt his master’s heart burst in his own fist. He was dead.

Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. They passed under some arches and pillars that led out of the ballroom and Fenris’s lyrium lit as if on cue, startling everyone. Quillian cursed under his breath. “There is old magic lingering here,” he said. “Remember…take care.” He paused. “It is nearby. Can you feel it?”  
The mages nodded, and Fenris furrowed his brow, uncomprehending…at first. Then he felt it too – a hum in the air, a disturbance like ripples in a pond, issued from a single source. The closer they got, the brighter his lyrium gleamed, sending sharp stabs of sensation through him. Suddenly he stopped, outside the door Quillian had led them to. He didn’t know what was inside, and he didn’t want to find out. But the magister procured a key from his robes and turned it in the lock, the door creaking open.

Fenris trembled, the magic tugging at his skin. Dorian squeezed his arm. “Come, Fenris,” he whispered. Fenris squeezed his eyes shut. He knew he had to follow, but a sense of foreboding overcame him. Something was off, something was _wrong_ …but he allowed the mage to tug him gently inside, the door closing behind him, cutting off escape and making him tense all over. He stared at the contraption on the grimy table in the middle of the small room. It was wicked thing, a mess of wire and metal woven together by strands of green magic and fragments of a strange white material. With horror, he realized it was bone. Human bone, probably. The whole thing formed a sort of orb shape, and it hummed louder when the mages approached it, as if in invitation. 

“Here it is,” Quillian said with a flourish. “So, what do you think, Dorian? Can you make any sense of it?”

“It’s curious,” Dorian murmured, stepping carefully closer, reaching out as if to touch and thinking better of it. “I’m sure you can feel the magic is very strong, however…it seems to be purely spirit magic for the time being. The death magic is…dormant, almost? I can sense it’s there, but it’s like an echo.”

Ignis nodded. “Exactly. Maybe the death magic is only fully present when the machine is on? Assuming it is a machine and can turn on, that is.”

Dorian frowned. “There’s something else. It’s…” He blinked, eyes widening in shock. “Venhedis, it’s not just spirit magic running the machine! He bound an actual spirit to it!” Fenris blanched. He had to leave. He had to run far, far away. But he was frozen in place, staring at the orb of light and bone. 

Quillian raised an eyebrow. “How is that even remotely possible? Wouldn’t we see the spirit if that were the case?”

Dorian shook his head. “The spirit could be bound, but still in the Fade. Imprisoned in its own little area, perhaps…and it only comes through when the machine is active.” He shook his head. “I’m not certain triggering that is a very good idea.”

Ignis looked similarly uneasy. “I fear he’s right, Quillian,” she muttered. “The spirit – whatever it is – is not a friendly one. And it has been locked up for a long time.”

Sinclair made an unimpressed sound. “Five gifted mages can easily destroy a single spirit or demon if it comes to that. We came here to get it working, did we not? So make it work!”

Valerio shifted uneasily. “I don’t know…Pavus and Ignis are more experienced with this type of magic, aren’t they? Maybe we should heed their warning.”

Quillian crossed his arms. “If there is indeed a malevolent spirit, we will deal with it. Can you activate it or not, Pavus?”

Dorian bit his lip. “I…”

Then Fenris took a step forward, though every instinct screamed against it, the lyrium suddenly searing in its brilliance. Dorian looked at him with confusion, Ignis gasped, and then an arc of violet light leapt from the orb to his skin, a fear demon’s shriek piercing the air. No. Piercing his _mind_.

Fenris cried out, falling heavily to his knees, fighting the fear and panic that wormed its way inside of him. There were far too many things for it to latch onto, and it was not long before he lost the battle and crumpled, sinking into darkness.

Then he was back in the ballroom with the mages, but their faces had changed. Magister Santori leered down at him instead of Quillian, flanked not by Ignis but Hadriana, her lips curling cruely. Sinclair and Valerio were younger Altuses, their eyes dark and hungry as they advanced. And in Dorian’s place stood Danarius, imperious and brimming with anger, all of it directed at Fenris. 

“No,” he whispered, feeling the cold air on his exposed body, the chill of the altar at his back. Every muscle was tensed, lyrium flickering. “Get back!” he snarled, and then Danarius’s hand was on his throat, nails piercing skin mercilessly as he dragged the struggling elf off the ground, choking and kicking weakly in the air. 

“Forgotten so quickly, Fenris?” Danarius growled, releasing him so that he fell in a gasping heap onto the altar, vulnerable and dizzy. “Your consent means nothing. You’re just a slave, and you live to serve, don’t you, little wolf? Besides, it’s your fault for being so tempting. Just begging to be used, aren’t you?”

Fenris glared at him, gathering up his remaining strength and kicking out again, the blow connecting with the magister’s chest. 

Danarius hissed and before Fenris could react he raised his palms, magic sinking into the elf’s skin, holding him firmly in place as if tied down by invisible ropes. No. More like chains. Fenris’s eyes widened, a fresh wave of terror consuming him. This was not real. This could not be real. But then Santori handed Danarius a bottle, a sickly silver potion which he uncapped and brought to Fenris’s lips. He writhed away, or he would have if he could move. The wretched potion made him gag, trying to spit it out and failing, the vile magic in it causing him to shake, sweating and panting. 

“Don’t resist it,” Danarius whispered, lips brushing his ear. Fenris whined piteously, the effects already taking place as he felt his body respond against his will, arousal building inside of him, eyes rolling back and mouth falling open. The lyrium lines sang, reveling in the magic, betraying him.

When he felt the first hand on him, he let himself slip away, to the quiet place inside his mind. It was easier that way. He looked blankly up at the ceiling, the glare of the white marble overtaking his vision until there was nothing else. The fear settled deep, meeting no resistance.

He was running. It was dark. The soles of his feet bled as if he’d been walking on glass, and still he ran, pain and fear coursing through him, driving him on. His skin felt sticky, and when he stumbled against a wall, he realized his entire body was covered in blood – his own? No. He knew whose it was. Who he was running from. His breath came fast and ragged, and suddenly the ground beneath his feet was damp and grassy, the sky overhead studded with stars, his broken body falling into the undergrowth.

“No,” he rasped, hands grasping nothing, trying to stand again. His legs gave out under him, agony blossoming in his side. Blearily, he looked, and immediately wished he hadn’t – his armor was sliced clean through, a wide gash from his ribs to his hip, dampening the earth beneath him with blood. “Master,” he whimpered, though he knew it was useless. Danarius had abandoned him as soon as they’d been overwhelmed by the Fog Warriors, and hadn’t stopped to help his slave when a Qunari axe had felled him. If not for his armor, he would have been cleaved in half by now.

Fenris let out a choked sob, the leaves cool and dry against his scratched cheek. So this was how it would end; in this blasted jungle, far from home, far from his master, all alone…

A twig crunched and he stiffened, immediately regretting the movement as pain jolted through him. He tried to phase but cried out instead, and then fog rolled over him, bringing with it soft footsteps and low voices. A large, rough hand touched his face and he looked up at the smoky, indistinct figure through half-lidded eyes, expecting the smooth slide of a knife across his throat. But instead, words were spoken, quiet and curious, and one of the large hands pushed back his hair, ghosting over the pointed tip of his ear and the lyrium lines.

“Viddath-bas,” once of them said, and Fenris winced. _Slave._

“Just do it,” he growled, letting his head fall back, baring his neck. His vision was already spotting; it would not be long before it ceased completely. 

But there were grunts of dissent, and still no knife. They seemed to come to a decision. A new hand, slightly smaller and softer, stroked his brow. “Safe,” the voice of its owner said. “You are safe.”

Then he was whole again, standing over their bodies, the fog dissipating and clinging to his skin, the bandages peeling off his body which was splattered with the blood of the Fog Warriors at his feet. There were three of them, three of them who had taken him in and nursed him back to health for months, and now they were dead at his hand. Literally. His fingers curled, dripping with gore, the lyrium’s light fading, his skin solidifying. 

Danarius heaved himself to his feet, approaching Fenris with a hand held to his injured leg, wincing with every step. “My little wolf,” he crooned. “You knew I’d return someday, didn’t you?”

Fenris could not answer. He could not stop staring at the bodies. Why had he done this? How could he have done this? His master had ordered, and he had obeyed. His eyes focused on the face of the body nearest to him – the female of the group, who had cared for him like he was her own child, her chest split open now, eyes sightless and shocked. He stumbled back, panicked. Remorseful. 

Danarius frowned. “Fenris. Come here. Return to your master, as I returned to you.”

“Five months,” Fenris whispered, shaking his head. 

Danarius sighed. “Fenris, there were complications. I couldn’t rush into enemy territory for one slave.”

Fenris flinched. “Why did you make me kill them?” he asked, his voice trembling. 

“They were keeping you from me,” Danarius replied, growing irritated. “Really, Fenris, it’s been too long. You forget your place. Come to me, now.”

Fenris’s fear spiked, guilt and loyalty warring inside of him. But when he looked back into the fallen warrior’s eyes, his choice was clear. “No,” he said, quietly, and then he turned on his heel and ran.

He ran towards the light. It swallowed him up, and then there was nothing left except the fear, tearing him to pieces.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, uh...this chapter got out of control real fast. But...there's a happy ending? Enjoy.

The fear demon lunged at Fenris, sinking its clawlike hands into the sides of his head as he screamed and thrashed, violet spirit magic – no, death magic, magic of horror and panic – crackling in the air around him. Dorian shouted, staff in his hands at once, sending a bout of flame at the demon, singing its greenish carapace.

Adrianna rushed to help, her lightning trapping the demon and making it howl, turning towards its attackers and leaving Fenris motionless on the floor. Dorian said a quick, silent prayer to whoever might be listening before throwing himself fully into the fray.

Quillian was quick to react, but although he tried to bind the demon, his magic was no match for it. Adrianna had been right – it was very angry at being locked up, and it would not allow itself to be bound again. So the magister relented and stood alongside Dorian, arcs of bluish energy flowing from his staff and covering the demon in vicious crystals that sizzled like acid. Sinclair and Valerio took a moment to get over their shock, but when the demon screeched and shot a ball of black energy that looked terrifyingly like a giant spider at them, they got with the program.

The demon was strong, but it was also out of practice. It snapped its teeth and lashed out with its unsettling number of legs as best it could, but eventually it was too much, and after many bouts of lightning, flame, acidic crystals, and ice, it fell with one last howl, crumbling to ash. Dorian didn’t even stop to breathe before rushing to Fenris’s side, gathering his limp body up and feeling for a pulse. Adrianna was close behind, but the other magisters watched quietly, uncertainly.

When Dorian finally found the faint beat of his heart, he exhaled heavily, holding the elf tighter and stroking the hair back from his face. Adrianna knelt beside him. “The damn machine was triggered by lyrium,” she said in realization.

Dorian gritted his teeth. “And Fenris was the perfect conduit.” He wondered if Danarius had planned to use this thing on Fenris, and his fists clenched.

Quillian stepped forward, his expression unreadable. “The energy Fenris and the demon released damaged the device. Cracked it right in half.” Disappointment oozed from his tone without a single hint of contrition, and Dorian kind of wanted to set his hair on fire. “I suppose that renders the machine useless, then?”

“I suppose so,” Dorian said tightly. 

“You three go on,” Adrianna said to the magisters. “We’ll continue this business at a later date, yes?”

“Of course,” Magister Quillian replied smoothly, casting one last curious glance at the unconscious elf before leaving, Sinclair and Valerio in tow.

When they were gone, Dorian wrapped his arms fully around Fenris, moving him until the elf’s head was pillowed in his lap instead of lolling on the cold tile. Adrianna sighed and raised her hand, turning back to the machine and sending a bolt of electricity through it until it shattered into a million pieces with a loud _crack_.

“Oops,” she said.

Dorian raised his head, looking at her guardedly. “Why did you do that?”

Adrianna shrugged. “It should never have been created in the first place,” she said. “I wasn’t about to let those Venatori bastards get their filthy paws on it. They’re idiots, you know – all that talk about restoring the Imperium’s former glory? Ha! They’re even dumber than that Corypheus fellow was, and that’s saying something.” She peered down at him. “But you’re not, are you? You’re just like me.”

“Like you?”

Adrianna nodded, sitting down opposite him, her gaze resting on Fenris for a moment before returning to him. “Neither of us belong here, do we? Where are people like us supposed to fit in amidst all the deceit, murder, blood magic, scheming, and high expectations?”

“Apparently, we become double agents,” Dorian replied wearily. “If I’m not mistaken, that is what you’re alluding to?”

“You are a clever one,” Adrianna smiled. “Although…I don’t work for anyone. Not yet. But you do, don’t you? So whose side are you on? Who are you playing little bird for these days, Altus?”

Dorian looked at her steadily (or as steadily as he could while Fenris lay there half-dead). He searched her face for any sign of dishonesty, and came up short. Instead, all he saw was anger – controlled, but still present. It was interesting. The Imperium had hurt her, too. Somehow. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll tell you. But not here, not now. I’ll…I’ll send you a letter. Soon.”

“Thank you,” she said, standing. “Oh, and…good luck with your elf. That fear demon had a pretty strong hold on him.” Her gaze wavered, as if remembering something. She bit her lip. “Keep him safe,” she added. “In a place like this, he needs someone like you.” And with that, she left.

Dorian looked back down at Fenris. 

His eyes were open, and Dorian startled back, though he was filled with overwhelming relief. “Kaffas, you scared me,” he chastised, and Fenris stared hazily back at him before scrambling away, standing unsteadily with his arms wrapped tight around himself. Dorian stood too, slower, palms raised and heart pounding. 

“What happened to you?” he asked, voice full of concern. “Do you want to leave? This place isn’t very cheery…perhaps a change of scenery would help…Fenris?”

The elf was breathing heavily, hands clenched into fists. Dorian started to take a step back, suddenly afraid – he knew Fenris was dangerous, could probably kill him if he really, really wanted to. Mentally, he readied a quick arsenal of defensive spells...but the elf didn’t move.

“I…we should go somewhere. Somewhere else,” he said stiffly.

Dorian furrowed his brow. “Er…alright? Where did you have in mind?”

Fenris looked steadily at him. There was a strange look in his eyes. “Follow me.”

So Dorian did.

The two of them walked through the silent corridors, winding and mazelike. One could easily get lost in here, but Fenris seemed to have it memorized. Of course he did, Dorian realized. He tried to imagine this place before, so many years ago – it would take hundreds of slaves to run an estate of such proportions. The thought, which might have fascinated him before, was rather nauseating now, especially when he imagined Danarius at the top of it all, a smug puppet master hidden away in this dark palace. The very air sent a chill through him, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as if someone unseen were watching. 

A ghost, he thought at once, but no…he would have sensed it. Wouldn’t he? Even still, it was not a stretch to imagine the damned place was haunted. It was certainly having a strange effect on Fenris. He was ten times twitchier than usual, and never strayed farther than a few steps ahead of Dorian, constantly glancing back as if to make sure the earth hadn’t swallowed him up or something of the sort. It was doing nothing to calm his nerves.

The corridor widened, and curved at the end. Dorian hurried to keep up, the air growing colder with every step. He didn’t know what was around the bend, but it filled him with a feeling of impending dread.

Fenris shuddered and reached for him as soon as they rounded the corner, fisting his hands tight in the front of Dorian’s cloak, a red flush spreading from cheek to chest, eyes overflowing with misery and panic. “Please,” he whispered, and Dorian gawked at him, this gorgeous elf clinging to him and begging him and something was _wrong_ , he knew it had to be, but when he tried to speak Fenris just shook his head and kissed him, hot and hard and desperate, mumbling against his mouth. “Need you,” he kept saying, and when Dorian hesitantly touched his side he felt Fenris actually _shaking_ , as if from the cold. But his skin was searing, and Dorian felt Fenris’s cock against his thigh, tenting the front of his breeches already. His own cock twitched in interest, ignoring his very conflicted thoughts. 

“Maker,” he breathed, confused and worried and turned on all at the same time. He tried to hold Fenris at bay. “What’s wrong?” he asked, but the elf just shook his head and rubbed himself all against Dorian’s front like a dog in heat, panting and sweating and staring at him with those _eyes_. 

“Touch me,” he pleaded. “Please, Dorian.”

Slowly, Dorian did, frantically trying to figure out what was going _on_. The elf had avoided Dorian for the whole week since their first drunken liaison, and now here he was practically throwing himself at him, groaning low and pleased when Dorian shaped him through the thin fabric of Fenris’s leggings, his mouth watering despite himself as he felt the growing bulge, the heat of him and the dampness at the head. He swallowed. “Fenris, are you sure –”

Then Fenris did a curious thing. He paused, biting his lip, his eyes blinking furiously, and then he crumpled, collapsing against Dorian’s chest and staying there, nearly embracing him. “Make me forget,” he said. “I need to forget.”

Dorian stared down at him, heart pounding. What had the machine done to him? “Okay,” he finally replied softly. “Okay, Fenris. Whatever…whatever you want. What do you want?”

Fenris’s whole body relaxed, though he was still trembling. “I…touch me, like you were. And…fuck me.”

Dorian froze. “No,” he said instantly. “I won’t –”

“Why not?” Fenris whispered, flattening his hands across the planes of Dorian’s chest, voice dropping to a sultry drawl with an undertone of desperation. “Am I not good enough for you? Not as good as Rilienus? Come on, Dorian. I know you want to.”

Dorian couldn’t deny _that_ , but he had enough logic left in his currently half-melted brain to know that he’d be taking advantage of Fenris – he wasn’t in his right mind, for whatever reason, and if Dorian gave him what he thought he wanted…Fenris would either hate himself, Dorian, or both of them when he was thinking clearly again. He wouldn’t do it. 

“No,” he said again, quieter.

Fenris looked like he might cry, his eyes downcast and shoulders slumping at the rejection. It was all very disturbing and very, very out of character. Then he said in a distant voice that did not quite sound like his own, “They…they always said I was worthless. Nothing. And for most of my life…I believed them. Nobody ever told me otherwise.” He closed his eyes. “Just now…I saw them. And I felt like that again. Nothing. Like…like I’m hollow inside, like they took something from me that can never be replaced. Like I’m broken.”

“Oh, Fenris,” Dorian murmured. “You’re not nothing. And you’re not broken.”

Fenris looked at him, and there was a spark of his usual self in his eyes, that fierceness that Dorian loved so much. “Then prove it to me,” he said. “Help me to feel whole again.”

A tremor went through Dorian, and he sucked in a breath, glancing around at their surroundings. The corridor ended in a large, stately door, and Dorian didn’t want to know where it led. Gently, he took Fenris by the shoulders and said, “Alright. I’ll take care of you…but not here.” Fenris started to protest but Dorian shook his head resolutely. “This place isn’t helping you, Fenris. Please.”

The elf sniffled and slowly nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

_Home?_

With a sigh, Dorian steered him away from the dark door and whatever lay beyond it. 

*

He’d hoped that getting away from Danarius’s estate would calm Fenris’s state of mind, but unfortunately that was not the case. As soon as they got into the carriage, Dorian got a writhing lapful of elf, and prayed that the footman had closed the door quickly enough as Fenris attempted to shove his tongue down Dorian’s throat. Dorian pulled him closer, one hand wrapping securely around his waist, and it was really quite alarming how hot his skin was. At first he’d thought that the machine must have laced Fenris with some kind of horrible aphrodisiac, but…that wasn’t it. 

Fenris had said he’d _remembered_ something. The damn fear demon must have shown him something from his past – or worse, made him relive it – and perhaps the machine had manipulated his emotions and memories until he became…this. It was really an awful mess, and if Dorian didn’t want to face the elf’s wrath after this was all over (assuming the effects were temporary), he was going to have to be very, very careful. Even worse, he might accidentally damage Fenris even further. 

_Oh, kaffas,_ he thought to himself as Fenris grinded harder against him, hands everywhere he could possibly reach. _What have you gotten yourself into this time?_

“Ah…Fenris, can you just…stay still for a moment? Until we get to the estate? Otherwise I’m afraid this isn’t going to last very long.” Dorian cupped his face and Fenris leaned into it, breathing hotly into his palm and working his hips slightly slower against Dorian’s. He didn’t even really look like he was listening, and Dorian wasn’t sure he’d heard, but then he exhaled and rolled off, curling up next to Dorian on the seat. The loss of warmth was shocking, but at least Fenris had some control left. A tiny shred of control, but it was something. This was going to be the longest hour ever.

“It feels like I’m burning,” Fenris whispered.

Dorian frowned. “You might have a fever, yes.”

“Not like that,” he replied. “It’s…” He broke off with a frustrated noise. “Can’t explain it,” he muttered. 

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, surprising them both. “I should never have brought you to the estate in the first place, and trying to use the machine while you were there was a terrible –”

“It’s not your fault,” Fenris snapped. Dorian flinched back a little at his tone. “You couldn’t have known lyrium activated it.” The anger faded and he hunched over unhappily. “It hurts,” he said roughly.

“What does?”

“My head,” he moaned, slumping bonelessly against Dorian’s shoulder. “Venhedis, and everything aches.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed. Fenris’s markings were flickering erratically. “Does…does it hurt more when I touch you? Maybe it’s the magic –”

“No,” Fenris murmured. “No, it…feels better. When you touch me. Touch me.”

Dorian couldn’t possibly refuse.

*

Dorian managed to stop him from doing anything obscene as they (finally) exited the carriage and went inside. Avexus and a very frazzled Krem greeted them. As soon as he saw Fenris, Krem’s irritated expression faded and he came over to them. Fenris turned his face into Dorian’s neck and whimpered. “What’s happened to him?” Krem muttered. “He looks, uh…pretty fucked up.” Understatement of the year.

Dorian bit his lip. Surely he didn’t need to know all the particulars, right? “Er…it’s a long story, Krem. Danarius’s damn machine had some…unexpected negative effects on Fenris. But I think I can fix it. Just…give me some time.” He was a bad, bad man, but hopefully Krem (and Fenris) would forgive him later. Without further explanation, he hustled Fenris upstairs, and as soon as his bedroom door closed and locked behind them, Fenris was on him, making frantic sounds against his lips. “Shhh, shh,” Dorian warned, moving them away from the rattling door and towards the center of the room. “Try not to be too loud, yes?”

“Touch me,” Fenris gasped again, since it was apparently his new favorite phrase. He was already unbuttoning his tunic and unlacing his breeches at the same time, or trying to. Dorian gave him a hand, and Fenris hurriedly went to work on Dorian’s own clothes. Last time, Dorian had been…well, not entirely drunk, but tipsy enough that it was difficult to exactly recall what Fenris had looked like under all that broodiness and armor. Now, though…he was terribly sober, and he didn’t think he would ever forget Fenris’s body again. Soon, his own clothes joined the elf’s on the floor, and Fenris sort of pounced, kissing him hungrily with tongue and teeth, cocks sliding against each other deliciously. But clearly, it wasn’t enough.

Then an idea occurred to Dorian. “Wait,” he said, prying Fenris off him. The elf looked almost murderous. “My apologies, but…you’re absolutely soaked in sweat already, and I think your fever is worse.”

Fenris glowered. “Your _point_?”

“Let’s take a bath.”

Fenris looked confused at first, and then his eyes darkened in understanding. “Alright, mage,” he said cautiously. Dorian grinned at him and went to the bathroom, starting up the water and throwing in some random oils. Lavender may or may not have been among them. The tub, a huge clawed porcelain thing, began to fill, steam rising from the surface. Dorian watched it, waiting, but Fenris did not seem able to wait, and it wasn’t long before he was pushed into it by one impatient elf, both of them hitting the soapy surface with a large splash. 

The water improved everything, Dorian had to admit. Why hadn’t he done something like this before? Beds paled in comparison, truly.

Fenris seemed to agree, if the way he twisted and moaned was any indication. Fasta vass, the entire house was going to know exactly what was going on in here. Dorian made a mental note to punch himself in the face later, though Fenris would probably beat him to it. Or just beat him, in general. Either way, he deserved it. There had to be another way to deal with this…this _thing_ going on in Fenris’s head. A sensible, safe approach that did not involve the elf sucking and biting at his neck and straddling his hips in a sinfully marvelous way. But Dorian was weak – he’d always known that. He’d fallen to temptation so many times before. But this time…this time, it was different, because he might be bringing somebody else down with him. 

Dorian had always seen elves as rather slender little things, not fragile per se but certainly better suited for bows than greatswords. Yet…Fenris had the body of a warrior, there was no denying that. He was lean and strong under Dorian’s fingertips, wiry and tough in some places, delightfully sleek and soft in others. His shoulders were broad and the muscles of his back moved sinuously against Dorian’s palms as he arched and panted, his legs lithe around Dorian’s waist. And his hands, long-fingered and graceful though they bore the callouses of a weapon’s hilt, were rough on the underside of Dorian’s cock.

He had been made into this creature of power and strength by fools who’d tried to make him serve them. Dorian wondered if they’d understood their mistake before it was too late. He couldn’t imagine Fenris caged, didn’t _want_ to imagine it. Fenris didn’t belong here, in the land he hated amongst others who hated and feared him. When this was all over, if they were all still standing…Dorian resolved silently that he would make sure Fenris was hundreds of miles away from the Imperium. Even in a Tevinter where slaves were freed…Fenris would not want to remain. He was sure of that. The elf had too many memories here, powerful, awful memories – the machine had made that abundantly clear. It would be best if he had nothing in his life to take him back to those memories.

Including Dorian.

And yet. There they were, kissing and grinding in Dorian’s bathtub because he was dreadful at making good decisions, apparently.

“You’re certain I’m not making this worse?” Dorian mumbled in one of the brief seconds their lips did not touch. 

Fenris gazed at him intensely, his eyes strangely clouded. “You are not,” he confirmed. Then he hesitated. “Perhaps…”

“What is it?”

“Perhaps it would help if you used magic,” Fenris mused. “If…if this…pain was caused by magic, then it could be taken away with magic, right?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian said unsurely. “Use magic on you?” Something was definitely wrong with Fenris.

But Fenris nodded.

Oh yes, Dorian was definitely going to get at least a black eye after this. But he relented and raised his palm, not missing the way Fenris flinched a little. He touched Fenris’s chest lightly, over one of the glowing spirals, and let the magic flow the way he had at Titus’s party. Fenris immediately went limp, gasping and closing his eyes, his lyrium singing with the energy, mouth falling open. 

“Don’t stop,” he said, and it sounded less like begging and more like a command. A bit encouraged by that, Dorian let more magic flow, unprepared when Fenris shoved him up against the side of the tub with a feral snarl, eyes wild and dark. At first Dorian thought he was going to die there, which would really be ridiculously embarrassing when his body was found, but then Fenris kissed him with just a quick sting of teeth, holding Dorian’s palm firmly against his skin, the surge of light and heat sparking between them and making Dorian more and more lightheaded as Fenris literally _absorbed_ every bit of magic Dorian gave. 

Even though he felt like he was going to pass out at any moment, it wasn’t…bad. If this was helping Fenris, then he’d gladly let his mana run out. As long as Fenris didn’t plan to kill him as soon as it did, which was actually a damned good plan. But the kiss, and the passion behind it, was genuine, and when Dorian’s magic actually did fizzle out, Fenris seemed calmer, and he stroked Dorian’s jaw almost fondly, eyes half-lidded. 

“You’re pale,” Fenris remarked, amused. “And quiet. It’s a nice change. You are much less annoying when your magic’s gone.” 

Dorian glared half-heartedly at him. The damn elf was _gloating_. “One moment,” he wheezed. “Maker, Fenris, what do you do with all that magic?”

Fenris looked uncertain. “I…do not know. But wherever it went, it helped. You helped.” He smiled, just slightly, though it faded quickly. “It’s not enough, though.” He shifted as if to prove his point, and Dorian sighed, tipping his head back at the sensation. 

Still unsteady from the magic drain, he sat up and nudged Fenris off of him, turning around and gripping the rim of the tub, kneeling and baring his back to the elf. “Go ahead,” he murmured, head hanging down between his shoulders. He lifted his hips slightly and Fenris cursed, a slender hand skating over the curve of his spine. Dorian hummed and leaned into it, reassuring. “Yes, go on. Do what you need to.”

He’d expected Fenris to just, well, go for it, but instead warm lips touched the back of his neck softly and he felt a long finger nudge between his legs, searching and then slipping in, curling and stretching as it was joined by another. Dorian hissed and moved back into it, hips rocking already. Fenris made a pleased sound and snuck his free hand around Dorian’s waist, jerking him off roughly in rhythm with his fingers’ motions, teasing at the skin behind his balls. Dorian moaned as quietly as he possibly could, the noise still echoing off the tiles. He felt Fenris’s grin sharp against his skin, his cock filling out completely in the elf’s hand, verging on too much. Some of his magic had returned but even still he felt helpless, tingling and on edge all over, and when Fenris added a third finger and crooked it against that _spot_ , Dorian almost lost it, gritting his teeth as Fenris tightened his grip around the base of his cock, thumb still teasing maddeningly at the tip. 

“Not yet,” Fenris mumbled, and Dorian growled impatiently, squirming on Fenris’s hand, moving his hips back until he felt Fenris’s cock slide against his ass, so slick already. Fenris groaned and thrust lightly, still teasing, his fingers still working inside. 

Dorian narrowed his eyes and grinded back on him again, very much done with the teasing. Fenris hadn’t been able to keep his hands off for the past hour and _now_ he was drawing it out? Maker, Dorian hated him. Well. Not really, especially when Fenris’s fingers finally slipped out and were replaced by his cock in one smooth movement made smoother by the water and oil. Dorian’s whole body shuddered at the feeling of being filled, Fenris’s hands tight on his hips as he started to move, slow and steady at first but quickly losing any sense of rhythm or restraint. Dorian was a mess, his cock swollen and thighs sore from the start, knuckles ivory against the side of the tub as Fenris drove into him again and again. Last time, Fenris hadn’t talked – hadn’t been very loud at all, really, except for lovely little gasps and whimpers – but now it was like whatever that machine had done had released a stream of filthy words from him, whispered haltingly in Dorian’s ear and making him moan that much more. 

“You’re _mine_ ,” he kept saying, but there was nothing romantic about it – it was possessive, primal, and if Dorian stopped to consider the implications of that he might be concerned. 

But he could barely think as it was, so he just shoved his hips back and breathed, “Yours,” without really knowing what he was saying or why.

“You want it so much, don’t you, mage?” he breathed, and Dorian couldn’t really argue that, though the way he said it wasn’t quite insulting. It just made him flush and shiver in pleasure, especially when Fenris thrust deep and bit the muscle of his shoulder, hard enough to bruise.

Their bodies were practically melded together, chest to back, silver tattoos to dark skin. Dorian could feel the lyrium sing against him, responding to all the base magic he was throwing out, crackling in the air between them as he began to lose control. The water sloshed against the porcelain and Dorian’s wrists cracked in protest when Fenris shoved him down, hard, his chest connecting with the tub’s rim and sending a shockwave of pain through him. Fenris dragged Dorian’s hips back, closer to his own, and the new angle was so much sweeter, the water washing over them constantly and Fenris’s hair tickling his back, panting hotly against his throat as he pounded into him, leaving Dorian stuck in a loop of aching pleasure. 

Fenris’s skin was warmer than ever, the elf’s cock heavy and throbbing inside him, and Dorian wondered, distantly, how long this would last. If Fenris tried to fuck him the whole night, Dorian probably wouldn’t put up much of a fight. Especially if they stayed here, like this, tangled up in each other, warm and wet and close. He wouldn’t mind that, not at all. But he could feel the elf faltering, struggling to reach his climax, straining and gasping when Dorian suddenly tightened around him and came, heart pounding and arms trembling from the effort of holding himself up. 

Fenris started to pull back and out but Dorian managed to reach an arm around and bring him back, murmuring encouragement. Fenris, head bowed and cock pushing insistently against Dorian’s sweet spot again, complied. Dorian shuddered at the oversensitivity, though it got better when Fenris pulled him into his lap, leaning back against the opposite side and fucking up into him with little moans, stroking Dorian’s spent cock hopefully.

Dorian choked out a laugh and twisted back to kiss him, and maybe it was something about the way their tongues touched or how Dorian shifted, but then Fenris was coming with a soft cry and a rush of warmth inside him. Fenris shook through it and Dorian held him as best he could, and in those moments Fenris did seem like quite a fragile little thing. 

When it was over they began the unpleasant process of extricating themselves, Fenris stumbling clumsily out of the bath like a baby deer or something, tripping over his own feet. Dorian chuckled and came up behind him, nuzzling at his neck boldly. “Do you feel better now? Because I must say, I think I’m going to have to sleep for –”

Fenris teetered unsteadily, and that was all the warning Dorian got before the elf fainted dead away in his arms, the unnatural heat fading from his body at last. 

*

Fenris awoke with a splitting headache and a warm body curled up against his back, one arm slung over his waist. His memory was fuzzy at first – pain, a dark corridor, blood, water, magic, lavender oil. His mind snagged on the last one and then he remembered all at once, his breath coming out in a startled, horrified gasp. The warm body stirred sleepily – Dorian – and Fenris tensed, rolling away from him and pausing at the edge of the bed, caught in Dorian’s confused stare as his eyes opened. 

Fenris didn’t know what to say. 

“Oh,” Dorian sighed. “You’re…back to normal, then. Well, that’s good because I’m not sure I’m up for another round just yet.” He stretched a bit and winced. “Kaffas, Fenris. You really didn’t hold back at all. Not that I’m complaining, but I think I’ll be needing another warm bath soon.”

Fenris swallowed. The door was so close – an easy escape. But he didn’t move. Instead he just said, “I’m sorry.”

Dorian blinked at him. “Are you really – Fenris, you were nearly driven mad by some sick mind-altering machine and you’re apologizing? I think it’s safe to say it wasn’t your fault. In fact, I’m rather shocked you’re not blaming me, because let’s face it, you hate me enough as it is –”

Fenris’s brow furrowed. “I do not hate you.” 

Dorian faltered. “I…you don’t?”

Fenris shook his head. “I’m _sorry_ ,” he said again, quieter. “I…I shouldn’t have done that. We shouldn’t have. I…I should…” He started to get off the bed and Dorian’s hand shot out, resting over his own. He stopped.

“Don’t go,” Dorian whispered, and it was a request, not an order. Fenris searched his eyes – they were sad, but also…wanting. He wanted Fenris, even still. Wanted this. Oh, he was a fool – but a very handsome fool who was quite good in bed. And true to his word, Fenris couldn’t find it in himself to hate Dorian as he once had – Dorian had him at his mercy last night. He could have…he could have done _anything_ and Fenris probably would have begged him for it. But he’d just given Fenris himself, and his magic, and had asked for nothing more in return. Fenris had known few who would have done the same.

So, to both of their surprise, he relented and laid back down, glancing over at Dorian. “The sex is nice,” he muttered. “I won’t deny that.”

Dorian snorted. “Well, at least we’re in agreement there.”

Fenris hesitated. “Do you want this to happen again?”

Dorian looked alarmed. “What? No! Why would I want you to be zapped by that machine again –”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Not that. The sex.”

“Ah.” Dorian bit his lip. “No strings attached sex?”

Fenris shrugged. “No strings. Like Rilienus.”

Dorian huffed. “I doubt you could be nearly as terrible as him, but…alright. If you wish.”

“Yes,” Fenris replied, not quite sure what he was getting into just yet.

Dorian closed his eyes. “Alright, Fenris.” Then he hesitated.

“What?” Fenris snapped, already regretting it.

“What did that fear demon show you?” Dorian asked in a whisper. Fenris tensed. “It must have been…bad. You were screaming, and then…nothing. I thought you might be…” He trailed off. 

Fenris looked at him for a long time. The early-morning sunlight cast long shadows across Dorian’s face, making him look older and more tired than he really was, throwing every curve and edge into high definition. He wasn’t looking at Fenris, but rather at the ceiling, lips set in a soft frown, forehead creased. 

He was…worried. Worried about _him_. The very thought sent a spark of anger through Fenris. How dare this mage, this spoiled Tevinter mage he’d loathed from the start, fret about him like he was some helpless child?! He did not need Dorian’s worry; he could take care of himself and he had, he had done so his entire life. Dorian didn’t have the right. Nobody had ever worried about Fenris. Not even Fenris worried about Fenris. Dorian did not get to do that. 

_Worried about him._

The anger faded faster than it should have. Fenris sighed. “It was bad,” was all he said, although strangely enough a part of him actually wanted to tell Dorian what had happened, to pour out what he’d suffered, to give the mage something to really worry about. He rubbed his eyes. He needed more sleep.

Dorian did turn to look at him then, some of the concern lifting from his face. Fenris didn’t like the sudden seriousness of the situation, and tried to focus on that ridiculous mustache. It didn’t really work, because instead his eyes fell upon Dorian’s mouth, and he tilted his head closer, impulsively, like an invitation.   
The mage blinked, but Fenris knew he wouldn’t waste such an offer. Sure enough, a warm hand cupped his cheek, drawing them together, Dorian holding him so, so carefully. 

_Worried about him._

Fenris smiled against his lips, where nobody could see.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your kind comments and kudos, they're a great way to keep me inspired about this story :)  
> There will be a double update this week, possibly even a triple update since I'm leaving for a 2 week trip to europe this Thursday and won't be able to write or update :/ so hang in there! not sure how much longer this story will be, but the conclusion is definitely not far off.

Krem was a suspicious man by nature. He’d been that way since the early days in the army, constantly looking over his shoulder and always fearing that his fellow soldiers had figured out his secret, or would someday soon. In the end, they had, and his suspicious nature didn’t do him much good, but it remained anyway. After the time spent with Bull and their rare, strange interactions with the Ben-Hassrath, this suspicion was refined and improved – Iron Bull, despite his blunt and open attitude, was incredibly good at reading people, and happily passed those skills along to his lieutenant. 

It was this sort of sixth sense that made Krem valuable not only as a soldier but as a spy – a different kind of spy, to be sure, but a good one nonetheless. And it was because of that that he was roped into doing this blasted mission by the Inquisitor and the Divine. After they’d managed to ‘persuade’ him, Leliana had taught him more than a few tricks of the trade, since she recognized that quieter, down-to-earth Krem would make a far better spy than flippantly oblivious Dorian or violently confrontational Fenris. Krem really couldn’t argue with that.

Anyway, it was also because of this that Krem became so close to Sparrow, the sly little elf they’d met on that first nerve-wracking night back in Tevinter. She was magnetic, and it was somehow not quite surprising when their meetings at the various parties turned into…something else. Sparrow had a way of doing things so casually – for example, one second she was discussing how many fatalities there had been in the last slave uprising, and then she was climbing into Krem’s lap and kissing him.

It was…sudden.

But it was more than that, of course it was, since Krem had startled back almost immediately with an apology already on his lips, want and guilt warring inside him. And she had just tilted her head and said, “I know,” with a small smile and just like that…it was alright. If Krem was good at reading people, Sparrow was incredible at it. In the quiet moments together, she would tell him things that, for once, had nothing to do with the Red Crown or their clandestine mission. 

She would tell him about amusing conversations, stories of happier days, dreams she’d had, the people she’d met. Sparrow didn’t much like to talk about the present – she hardly ever mentioned Magister Quillian or the ‘duties’ she had, and Krem was glad for it. But then again, there were those nights when she didn’t talk, didn’t want to do anything except sigh and lean against him and let him figure out which bruises and scars were new. 

Krem had never been a slave. He had been around slaves when he was younger, of course – they were just a part of the Imperium, part of the scenery. After his father had been forced to sell himself to save the Aclassi family, Krem had understood it was a sacrifice, but…he still hadn’t quite understood it, not fully. Perhaps he never would. But being with Sparrow gave him a fuller, realer perspective on it – slaves were not just things, no matter how badly magisters wanted to believe it. They were people with hopes and dreams and hearts that somehow kept beating, even as others attempted to beat them into submission. Sparrow didn’t tell him about all the terrible things that had been done to her and her fellows, but he could see it in the way she sometimes flinched, or stiffened, or gritted her teeth in anger that seemed too great for such a small body to hold. Maker, she was angry. 

Fenris was angry too, but…Sparrow’s anger was different. His was a simmering bitterness, subdued somewhat over time, softened by freedom. Her anger was a fresh wound, torn open daily, and she had no choice but to wear a mask of passive apathy in the face of those who caused it. But she was intent on enacting her revenge, and slowly Krem began to feel a need for retribution too, a drive that made this mission more than just the right thing to do. It _had_ to be done. 

He told Sparrow that, and she grinned – a little bit fierce and a little bit proud – and told him a story about two birds that flew wherever they wanted, higher and higher until their wings touched the stars. 

*

It was strange to have Dorian and Fenris with them in the small spare room, the sounds of the party distant white noise behind them. Sparrow was perched on an unused desk, with Krem leaning as casually as possible against the wall beside her. Dorian and Fenris stood opposite, arms crossed and brows lowered, strange mirror images. The tables seemed to have turned with those two as of late. For one thing, they weren’t at each other’s throats anymore. For another…Dorian was oddly broody and Fenris was oddly…not. Krem wouldn’t go so far as to say the elf was _happy_ , but his sarcastic comments and scathing glares weren’t nearly as harsh as usual. He even smiled, sometimes. Krem wasn’t sure whether to be wary or relieved, so he settled on somewhere in between.

“So, did you find anything about this Adrianna Ignis?” Dorian asked impatiently. A week ago, he’d asked Sparrow to gather all possible intel on the apparently turncoat magister – Krem was glad Dorian hadn’t blurted all their secrets to her, even if she’d seemed genuine enough. After all, she had destroyed Danarius’s machine, which was (luckily) explained away by some quick thinking on Dorian’s part. Some bullshit about ‘ambient magic expelled by the dying spirit and Fenris's lyrium.’ 

Sparrow rocked a little, shrugging. “She’s twenty-three. Powerful, seemingly ambitious, admired in many social circles, considered a bit eccentric but overall very bright and well-read…the interesting bit is the whole matter of her parents’ death.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes. “I suspected foul play. Is there any truth to it?”

Sparrow inclined her head, looking troubled. “My sources were…unclear. Her parents’ bodies were found early last year, hanging from their bedroom ceiling.”

Dorian furrowed his brow. “Double suicide? That makes no sense. The Ignis family was quite successful, if I remember correctly. Why would they have cause to –”

“Perhaps they didn’t,” Sparrow interrupted. “There are...certain ways to force people to do drastic things against their will. The house slaves mentioned a strange metallic smell in the room for weeks afterward...”

Fenris glowered. “Blood magic.” Krem didn’t like the look in his eyes, for it suggested he’d experienced such coercion. 

“Yes,” Sparrow said. “If someone had wanted them dead very badly, they could have staged the suicide that way. It would have to be someone powerful enough to restrain two full-fledged mages long enough to take their blood and complete the ritual, though. Which is where it gets a bit implausible.”

Dorian frowned. “What if it was a group of mages? Powerful ones, well-versed in blood magic.”

Krem blinked, detached himself from the wall. “The Venatori.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “What motive would they have?”

Sparrow steepled her fingers together. “Oh, yes. Motive. Something else you might find interesting – before their sudden demise, Magister Ignis and his wife were grooming Adrianna to be the next Archon. Just like you, Dorian, however Adrianna seemed far more… _willing_ about the whole thing. In fact, the Archon had accepted her as a possible apprentice – unsurprising, given her natural talent and dedication and all that.”

“Let me guess,” Dorian sighed, “the Venatori didn’t agree with whatever the late Magister Ignis was teaching his daughter? Didn’t quite measure up to their usual standard of villainy and corruption?”

“Quite,” Sparrow said. “But this brings us to the most intriguing fun fact about the littlest Ignis…according to an escort who once served in that household, Adrianna had a secret elven lover.”

Dorian blinked in bewilderment. Fenris’s mouth twisted. “A slave?”

“Yes, a common garden slave. I guess the girl really liked flowers or something. Of course the whole thing was kept very quiet, even after her parents found out.”

“And what happened when they did?” Dorian asked quietly.

Sparrow grinned. “They freed the slave.” 

“Damn,” Krem said in the ensuing silence. 

“Yeah, damn. Sent him safely away to the Free Marches, apparently. That was harder to keep quiet, I imagine.” Sparrow shook her head.

“And I doubt the Venatori were pleased to figure out the next Archon was in favor of such things,” Dorian mused. “Freeing the slaves? Being a decent person? We can’t have that!” Fenris chuckled and Krem looked at him in surprise. The elf quickly composed himself.

“So they had her parents murdered? What, exactly, did that accomplish?” Fenris muttered. Krem wondered the same.

“By forcing her into the Magisterium, they ensured she was no longer eligible to be Archon,” Dorian explained. “A clever plan, though executed in a somewhat convoluted way. And now she’s seemingly joined their ranks…then comes to me with traitorous notions. Curious business, that.”

“If she somehow found out that the Venatori were involved, she’d want revenge,” Krem said. “You think she found out?”

“I think she’s a very clever girl,” Dorian murmured, “and I ought to pay her a visit soon.”

*

In the end, it was Adrianna who visited Dorian, looking rather ill at ease in the gleaming parlor where she was surrounded by white and gold cushions that made her look all the darker, the magister’s maroon robes like a dark stain pooling around her feet. At Danarius’s mansion, she’d seemed far more confident and aloof, but she kept biting her lip and glancing around, and Dorian was once again reminded of how young she was.

Lanari brought them a tray of tea and scones with a small curtsey before leaving the two mages alone.

Well, alone except for Fenris and Krem, who lurked somewhere close behind Dorian’s setee, armed and ready in case they’d somehow been horribly wrong about everything. Dorian had insisted their presence really wasn’t necessary, but Fenris had elected to disregard him and Krem had agreed heartily. So there they were.

Adrianna cleared her throat as Dorian daintily picked up a cup and took a sip of tea. “I’m…glad to see your elf is recovered, Altus.”

“Fenris?” Dorian said casually, setting the cup down. There was a slight clink of armor shifting to his right. “Yes, luckily that machine didn’t hurt him permanently. I daresay it won’t be hurting anyone else ever again after the number you did on it.”

Adrianna crossed her legs. “Ah, right. I suppose it won’t be. The whole thing was a bad idea – what with the mind control and spirit binding, it had blood magic written all over it.”

Dorian smiled. “Let’s talk about blood magic. What are your feelings on the subject?”

Her eyes darted to the side. “I do not practice it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “No, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking how you feel about it. Personally.”

“I hate it.” In an instant, her nervousness was replaced by tense anger, the same anger he’d seen in her before, flashing brightly in those hazel eyes. 

_Well, that’s promising._ “Care to elaborate?” Dorian prompted. “Why, exactly, do you hate it so much?”

She leaned forward, mouth set in a thin line. “Is this an interrogation, Altus? What do you want me to say? A better question – what have your little birds found out about me?” The staff on her back crackled warningly with lilac lightning, and Dorian met her gaze levelly.

“You must realize you’re a puzzling creature, Magister Ignis,” Dorian murmured. “How, exactly, did you figure out the Venatori were the cause of your parents’ deaths?”

Her eyes widened, lips parting as she leaned back and away. “You don’t know,” she whispered.

Dorian furrowed his brow. “Know what?”

“I was the one who killed them,” Adrianna said.

Fenris snarled, and Dorian heard the unmistakable rasp of a greatsword unsheathed, felt the whoosh of it far too close to his ear before he turned with a warning hand, greeted by Fenris’s infuriated expression. From the way the elf’s lines glowed, Dorian knew Adrianna had at least raised a barrier to defend herself, and perhaps something else too. For all he knew, she had a bolt of lightning aimed at his back. But oddly enough, he doubted it. 

He turned back to her and sure enough, her hands were outstretched only to create a shimmering veil of magic around herself, watching Fenris warily. “Let me speak,” she said. “I didn’t deny the Venatori’s involvement, but…yes, it was I who restrained them and tightened the nooses.” She flinched when Fenris actually growled. Dorian tried to ignore the entirely inappropriate effect that sound was having on him. “Not by my own volition, though.”

“Oh,” Dorian said, finally realizing. “You…it wasn’t your parents who were controlled by blood magic, was it?”

“No,” she said miserably, shaking her head. “The Venatori knew I was a powerful mage, and one day…one of them was a friend of my father’s. He caught me unawares, performed the ritual on me, and…I barely remember the rest, but it ended with my parents dead. I…I wasn’t supposed to remember any of it, but somehow something fell through the cracks. The Venatori approached me afterward, blaming me for it and saying they would keep it a secret only if I joined their cause and the Magisterium.”

“How did you manage to remember it, I wonder?” Dorian asked, tilting his head. She must be a very powerful mage indeed. “Do you recall who performed the ritual?”

She nodded, clenching her fists. “I didn’t remember his face, but that _smell_ …cloves and citrus…”

“Quillian,” Fenris spat. 

“Yes,” she said. She pursed her lips. “Do you plan to kill him?”

Dorian blinked. “Well…”

“Yes,” Fenris said. Dorian glanced at him, startled. It wasn’t explicitly part of their plan, but…

“Good,” Adrianna shot back, folding her arms. “I want to help, if I get to be the one to kill him.”

“Fine.” Fenris sheathed his sword. “There’s more than enough magisters to go around for everyone. Including you, in case you get any ideas.”

Adrianna smirked. “Understood.”

“Now, wait just one second –” Dorian started.

Krem interrupted him. “I agree with Fenris. We need all the help we can get, and sorry Dorian, but you’re no magister. Ignis has more power and influence than you do, and we can use that.”

Dorian sighed. “Fair enough. Alright, you’re in, Magister Ignis.”

Adrianna paused. “Really?”

He inclined his head. “Welcome to the Red Crown.”

*

Dorian grumbled, eyes fixed on the ceiling and brow furrowed. “I just don’t understand why you – _ah_ – trust her so much.”

Fenris lifted his head from Dorian’s neck, smirking nastily. “Jealous?”

Dorian glared. “I’m serious.”

Fenris rolled his shoulders and sat back, shrugging. “I trust she won’t stab us in the back. She was betrayed once – her desire for vengeance against them is genuine.”

“ _Vengeance_ , right,” Dorian sighed. “I suppose you’d know all about that.”

Fenris tilted his head. “And you wouldn’t?”

Dorian blinked. “What?”

Fenris’s ears lowered ruefully. “Ah. Right. Avexus…told me about what your father tried to do.”

Dorian blanched. “He did _not_.”

Fenris frowned. “He did. I…I asked why you left Tevinter in the first place. And he told me. Don’t you want revenge for what happened to you?”

Dorian scowled. “That’s beside the point. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here to change things for the better, like I always wanted to, long before my damn father did what he did.”

Fenris looked unconvinced, but he shrugged again and sank back down, lapping at a stiff nipple and making Dorian arch and yelp when teeth stung sensitive skin. “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he remarked offhandedly, latching back on with his mouth while reaching down and slipping a finger inside the mage far too easily.

Dorian wasn’t quite sure they were finished talking about Avexus’s little storytelling session with Fenris, but when the elf added another finger and twisted it savagely he decided to put the conversation on hold. It wasn’t really something he wanted to think about during sex, anyway. Ideally, he wanted to be rendered unable to think during sex. And so far, Fenris was doing an excellent job of that.

Very slowly. 

He seemed content to kiss and bite his way down Dorian’s body, lingering longer on his hips until the mage was moving unconsciously up into it with impatient sounds, desperate for more contact and friction. Fenris’s eyes flicked towards his cock and he licked his lips, making Dorian curse and nod frantically, but he just laughed and moved back up to kiss him. Dorian whined against his lips and the elf pressed back harder to shut him up, his own cock filling out against Dorian’s thigh, fingers twisting torturously.

Maybe kissing was enough to get Fenris off. Dorian, however, was a bit needier than that. So after several more minutes of the deep kisses and shallow thrusts against each other, he huffed and rolled off and then over. Fenris blinked up at him, adorably confused, and Dorian gave him an apologetic look. 

“Not a patient man, remember?” he murmured, taking Fenris’s cock in his fist right away. The elf moaned, eyes half-closed in pleasure, and Dorian slid down the length of his body and took him as deep as he could, hands bracketing his slim hips and cheeks hollowing around the heavy heat of him. Fenris shuddered and stroked clumsily at his head, fingertips catching the edge of Dorian’s mouth and jaw. From the way he started to squirm, Dorian figured it wouldn’t be too long…unless Dorian gave Fenris a taste of his own medicine. 

So he pulled back and started kissing instead of sucking, painting wet trails with his tongue on dark, silky flesh. Fenris eyed him but said nothing, head falling back again when Dorian curled his tongue around the head of his cock, fingers encircling the base and tickling at his inner thighs, though never lower. He wasn’t certain what Fenris would do if Dorian’s touch found the soft, warm space between his thighs, but he was fairly sure it wouldn’t be pleasant (for either of them). It was kind of an…unspoken rule. 

With Fenris, there were a lot of unspoken rules. Dorian was content that Fenris even allowed him this close. He knew the elf didn’t fully trust him – if he did then he wouldn’t have such a tight grip on the back of Dorian’s neck, or that strange look in his eyes, torn between warning and wanting. But Dorian didn’t take it too personally. Trust was not something Fenris had much experience with, it seemed. That made him more than a little sad.

When Dorian pumped his hand faster, the lyrium started to come alive, glowing in the dimness and casting everything in eerie cerulean light. Dorian made a soft sound, pausing and nuzzling at Fenris’s hip, staring at the intricate latticework of scars with no small amount of wonder. “These are beautiful,” he murmured, kissing one of the swirls of silver and feeling how Fenris instantly went still and tense under him. He glanced up at the elf anxiously.

“Don’t say that again,” Fenris snapped, curling in on himself slightly, “or I’ll leave.”

Baffled, Dorian sat back on his heels. “What? That they’re beautiful?”

Fenris sneered, and he started to sit up, tucking his knees towards his chest and scoffing, “They’re not. They’re repulsive mutilations carved into me by a madman in a process so painful it gave me amnesia. What about that is beautiful to you, mage?”

Dorian sighed. “Alright, alright. You’ve made your point. But I don’t find them repulsive.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

Dorian was about to shoot back a witty reply when he realized something. “Wait a second. If the process of getting the tattoos gave you amnesia, then how do you remember the pain? And…you mentioned you had a sister once, before the lyrium. So how did you remember that?”

Fenris, unexpectedly, flushed. “I…some of the memories came back to me in Kirkwall.”

“How?”

Fenris glowered, turning redder. “It happened during the night I spent with the Champion.”

Dorian gaped at him. 

“Don’t,” Fenris warned half-heartedly, but it was no use. 

“The _Champion_?” Dorian breathed, unable to conceal the grin on his face. “Garrett Hawke? Really? You and him –?” He gave Fenris’s cock a reverent little pat. “I’m so proud.”

“Yes, once,” Fenris muttered, “before he fell for that abomination Anders and started a mage rebellion.”

“Anders…oh, the one who blew up the Chantry?” Dorian brightened. “I’d love to meet him. You could say I’m a big fan.” Fenris’s glare increased a hundredfold and Dorian cleared his throat, sensing a serious history of rivalry and drama that he wanted no part in. “Or not. Anyway, what, you were fucking the Champion and suddenly had vivid flashbacks? That’s rather awkward.” Then his eyes widened. “Wait, you don’t have vivid flashbacks when you’re fucking me, do you?”

“No,” Fenris said flatly. “It’s not like it happens whenever I have sex. That would be a bigger issue.”

“Ooh,” Dorian said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Scandalous Fenris.” Fenris kicked his shin and he yelped.

“I’m not nearly as easy as you,” Fenris told him. As he said it, his hand crept along Dorian’s spine, fingers resting at the small of his back. 

“True, but wait, I’m not done with this very _intriguing_ topic. If it doesn’t happen with just anyone, then when does it happen?”

Fenris slipped two fingers back inside of him resolutely, his other hand finding Dorian’s cock. “No, I think we’re definitely done,” he said. Between his clever fingers, his rough hand, and the searing kiss that followed, the world dissolved into a wonderful trifecta of temptation that Dorian was powerless to resist.

Still, the question niggled at the back of his mind, though Dorian thought he might already know the answer.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some warnings for slight non-con/rough sex in this chapter. here's to hoping i have time for another update before I leave for europe!
> 
> feedback is always welcome. enjoy!  
> (and yeah, elf eyes canonically glow.)

Fenris was glad Dorian had stopped leaving him all alone at those bloody (literally) parties, though it was rather irritating how clingy the mage could be. If anyone so much as brushed up against Fenris the wrong way, Dorian would tug him slightly closer, a hand subtly curling around his waist until Fenris managed to sneak in a glare and shake him off. If he was being honest, the mage’s ridiculous, constant vigilance _did_ give him a much-needed barrier against more unwelcome advances, but it also made him feel very, very uncomfortable. Not because Dorian was touching him, but because of the look the mage gave Fenris – warm and comforting with an edge of fierce determination. 

It was the kind of look that gave Fenris the illusion of being protected, being _safe_ , which was just…wrong. He wasn’t safe here, would never be safe here in this wretched country full of damn mages who were more powerful than anything should be, plenty of whom would probably have him executed in a horrifically creative way if not for the slightly less terrible mage at his side. Even Dorian could turn on him at any moment, he knew. The man may not have been a magister, but he was easily more skilled than many magisters Fenris had encountered. 

It was a small comfort that he appeared to be in very good control of his dangerous magic, though Fenris knew that wouldn’t matter if one day the mage decided he preferred what the Venatori offered him. And they offered him a great many things. At best, it was clear their offers flattered and surprised Dorian, at worst they truly tempted him. They actually wanted to give him a seat in the Magisterium, along with making him one of the owners of Danarius’s mansion, which would be used as a sort of sick research headquarters for the Venatori. It was hard to listen when the mages talked about such things, occasionally mentioning Danarius himself. Fenris had to keep reminding himself that this wasn’t real, that his master was dead, that Dorian’s hand on his back was not there to mark him as his own. 

Then why was it there?

Rather than puzzle over troubling things like that, Fenris found it easier to let himself drift off to someplace else during the Venatori’s conversations with Dorian. He’d become very good at distancing his mind from situations, letting go, allowing the world around himself to dissolve into white noise and faint silhouettes of colors. His thoughts would go where they wanted to, trying to recall memories that were fractured in places, incomplete and stolen from him by echoes of agony. In his mind’s eye he saw lush gardens, an elven woman with dark red hair like his sister, the blurry shadow of a man whose skin and hair were as dark as Fenris’s had once been. Humid jungles, crying babies, a gush of scarlet, two children laughing and hiding from the strange men who carried carved sticks in their hands…

And then there were the fonder memories, the more recent ones that were full and unbroken. Slavers falling, a dog barking, a loud tavern, a prized crossbow, a loud woman with long dark hair who kissed him and touched him with calloused brown hands. Laughter. Metal on metal, skin on skin, a big, bearded man whose smile lit up the room, strong fingers that traced his skin worshipfully, soft sheets and an open window…glass bottles, haunted mansions, damp caves, roaring dragons, the crinkle of parchment in his hands, the turrets of Skyhold, a disarming grin, warm water, horses racing across an open plain, Dorian’s face caught somewhere between exquisite pleasure and pain.

At that point, he usually forced himself to come back to the present.

This particular time, he appeared to have missed something very important, as Dorian had gone very still and Quillian was smiling in a decidedly unfriendly way. As they often did, the other mages were continuing their own separate conversations, though many of them were half-focused on Quillian, Dorian, and Fenris. Especially Fenris. When Quillian repeated himself, it became clear as to why.

“Altus? Did you hear me? I asked if you’d properly punished Fenris for causing the destruction of Danarius’s machine. It could’ve been a great asset to us if he hadn’t muddled things, accidentally or not.” Quillian tilted his head.

Dorian folded his arms. “Of course I punished him,” he said. If it wasn’t such a serious subject, Fenris might have laughed. Dorian hadn’t punished him in the slightest unless you counted how much he’d teased Fenris the night before (until Fenris lost his patience and shoved his face into a pillow). And somehow, Fenris doubted that was the type of punishment the magister was talking about. 

Quillian raised an eyebrow. “How?”

Fenris gritted his teeth. Dorian was clearly lost – he had no idea what the proper response to that was. In other situations that would be a very good thing, but now? It would have been helpful if Dorian had at least some concept of proper slave-owning etiquette, or whatever it was called. Finally Dorian muttered, “I…gave him no food and water for a day.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. So did Quillian. “That’s hardly a severe punishment,” the magister admonished. “You must remedy that, so he learns his lesson for good.”

Dorian blanched. “I hardly think that’s necessary –”

“Danarius punished him often,” Quillian said coolly. “I’m sure you punished him often in the process of breaking him. A very mysterious process, by the way…you haven’t said much about it.”

Dorian swallowed. “Yes, well. It was long and unpleasant. You don’t need to know all the sordid details.”

Fenris cringed. He was just digging them both a deeper and deeper hole here. Sordid details were definitely on the top ten list of magisters’ favorite things.

“Then why don’t you give me a little sneak peek?” Quillian pressed. Challenging. Warning. Suddenly Fenris was reminded of just how unsafe he was here, with all eyes on him and Dorian, waiting eagerly. Dorian wasn’t looking at him anymore, nor was he touching him at all. He was putting up walls of his own, distancing himself in his own way as if that would make this better, somehow. Fenris’s gut twisted. 

“It would be unsafe for me to subject him to such punishment so frequently –” Dorian tried.

“Oh, don’t be silly. The elf survived having lyrium carved into his body. I think any other pain will pale in comparison. All the more reason to make him feel it,” Quillian concluded. 

Everyone in the vicinity was watching them now, or at least it felt like they were. Nowhere to hide.

Dorian bit his lip. Fenris was caught, trapped in the damn spider’s web again, unable to struggle for fear of being discovered. He knew what had to be done, but that didn’t make it any better. It didn’t make him hate it any less. It wasn’t…it wasn’t _fair_. He was supposed to have escaped from all of this, and yet…

“Quillian, I can’t –”

“Or do you actually feel something for that pet of yours, Dorian? Maybe he’s not quite as broken as you’ve led us to believe –”

Fenris had felt Dorian’s magic before, but never like this. Never when his magic was meant to hurt, a cage of static electricity strangling him, sharp arcs of excruciating energy zapping through him to the very core, making him jerk like some deranged puppet and cry out in helpless pain, falling to his knees when lightning danced down his back. Panic rushed through him – there hadn’t been enough warning for Fenris to prepare himself for this, not enough time to ebb the flow of memories that returned with every strike of the electricity against his skin, lyrium lines burning with fresh agony each time. 

He didn’t know how long it went on, only that when it ended his muscles gave out under him and he collapsed on the cold marble, fingertips twitching and feet stumbling when someone hauled him to his feet. “That should suffice?” Dorian said, his voice cold and clipped, and Quillian’s reply was lost in the roar of blood pounding through Fenris’s ears, pain fading, fury replacing it. 

He’d been right not to trust that damn mage.

*

Dorian, as it turned out, was admittedly not very good at finding alternate solutions to big, unexpected problems. Especially problems involving Fenris. So yes, maybe he didn’t have a clue about what the right punishment was for what Fenris had supposedly done. But he hadn’t considered that might be an issue until Quillian flat-out threatened him in the middle of a crowded ballroom. Dorian had been sure the magister was starting to see right through the act, and he couldn’t let that happen. So he just…did exactly what Quillian wanted. He made Fenris hurt, more than that, humiliated him. The Red Crown wished for him to play the villain? He was feeling more and more like one every day, but when he stared down helplessly at Fenris writhing and choking on Dorian’s own magic, he didn’t know how much more villainous he could be. 

The worst part was when Fenris just…gave up. He stopped fighting the strands of lightning that were supposed to just prickle his skin but clearly had a much worse effect, no doubt augmented by the lyrium. He surrendered to it and let his body fall, head bowed and eyes vacant, lips parted pleadingly. Dorian’s control faltered and the electricity fizzled out, releasing Fenris. He toppled over with a dull thump.

“Well,” Quillian said, “that was quite the performance.” Dorian’s reply was harsh and short as he helped Fenris back to his feet, the elf shaking and panting shallowly, ears lowered and eyes averted. “I apologize for doubting your…capability, Altus,” Quillian murmured.

“Don’t doubt it again,” Dorian said. Fenris slumped against his side. The elf’s body was still weakened, but when he regained his strength Dorian knew he was in trouble. It was time to leave.

*

Krem had seen the display from across the room, huddled in the shadow of a pillar with Sparrow.

“Ouch,” was all Sparrow said, though she edged closer to Krem and shivered whenever Fenris cried out.

“I never liked magic,” Krem muttered. “But Fenris _hates_ it. And he’s going to _kill_ Dorian.”

Sparrow snorted. “Fenris is tough, but…you really think he could kill Dorian?”

“I think he’ll try,” Krem said grimly. 

She sighed. “Well…try to make sure he doesn’t. Dorian’s still useful to us.”

“I’m not making any promises,” Krem replied, wincing when Fenris fell and didn’t get up again.

*

Dorian was beginning to associate carriage rides with terrible awkwardness verging on misery – Krem looking resolutely out the window and Fenris curled up as small as small and as far away from Dorian as he could possibly be. Dorian, meanwhile, tried to come up with some handy spells to prevent a certain elf from coming into his bedroom and shanking him while he slept. At this point, he figured that was a pretty legitimate fear. And judging by Krem’s stony expression, Dorian really doubted he’d get any support from him. Typical.

Maybe he could try to heal Fenris? He didn’t think he’d done too much damage, but maybe…

No. Bad idea. Dorian sighed as the carriage finally rolled to a halt, and quickly exited the carriage, hoping Fenris would want to ignore him and skulk off to sulk somewhere safe. Unfortunately, he was distinctly aware of being followed as he made his way inside and up the stairs. Sure enough, when he glanced back, pausing in front of his bedroom door, Fenris’s long shadow fell across the floor, stretching out towards him menacingly. Yes, he was in trouble. But if he could just…

Dorian didn’t stand a chance.

He’d just opened the door when an infuriated bundle of elf collided with him, shoving them both into the room and kicking the door shut behind them. Dorian’s barrier spell would have succeeded in time if Fenris hadn’t pushed him against the wall so hard the breath was knocked out of him, and before Dorian could regain his composure Fenris was inside of him in a very different way which he immediately decided he did not like at all.

It was unsettling how fast Fenris’s hand found his heart, his grip as cold and unyielding as iron, his skin glowing everywhere as if there was nothing left of him except that strange lyrium mist. Dorian stared breathlessly into quicksilver eyes, blazing with unmistakable rage, and couldn’t help the whimper when nails dug in. One flick of the wrist, one jerk of his fingers, and Fenris would have him bleeding out on the floor. But he didn’t move. Neither of them did.

When he spoke his chest felt too tight, too heavy. “Is this you nonverbally demanding an apology? Because I’m sorry. But what else was I supposed to – _kaffas_ , please don’t do that.” Fenris’s nails felt a lot sharper when they were against his organs.

“I don’t want an _apology_ ,” Fenris growled. “I don’t need your pity.”

Dorian tried to be as blithe as he possibly could be while having a hand in his chest, which wasn’t working very well. For one thing, it was starting to get hard to breathe. “Evidently you need _something_ , or you wouldn’t be here right now. So if you’ll just _stop doing that_ I’ll give you whatever you want –”

“You’re not _giving_ me anything,” Fenris snapped, frost tinging his voice and the tips of his fingers. “I’ll _take_ what I want.”

Slowly, Dorian understood. _Oh_ , he thought blurrily, gasping when Fenris yanked his hand out and solidified, looking even angrier in the flesh. With a pang of guilt, Dorian saw the faint burns on his neck and bare arms, but before he could try to apologize again, Fenris forced his tongue into Dorian’s mouth and bit down on his lip hard enough to bleed. Dorian’s squeak was muffled by the kiss (if you could even call it that), and when the elf tried to bite him again, Dorian’s pride bubbled up stubbornly, and he sent a course of current through his body, sending Fenris jumping back, skin sizzling with smoke wherever he’d touched Dorian.

If Fenris looked mad before, now he was downright livid. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Fenris spat, and Dorian knew he was in trouble if the elf was switching to the trade tongue. But he was never very good at learning when to stop talking.

“I think that was a pretty valid response considering –”

Fenris lunged for him, and they crashed to the floor, lips connecting in a brutal kiss that was more teeth than tongue, Dorian’s head nearly cracking on the wall on their way down. The floor was too cold and hard underneath him, but Fenris gave him no opportunity to move away, yanking Dorian’s hair so hard he saw stars (and not in a good way). Dorian rolled up against him, fingers still crackling with leftover electricity that just made Fenris angrier. His hands clawed at Dorian’s robes, raking fingers across skin and leaving behind harsh red lines as he tugged them off, leaving Dorian bare where he needed it. Fenris just undid his breeches, leaving everything else on almost mockingly until he was a dark figure looming over him, shoulders tipped with black feathers and head outlined in a halo of shocking white.

Dorian whined and canted his hips up in invitation although his pulse thundered – Fenris’s eyes were far too dark, far too wild. This was not going to be pleasant.

Fenris’s voice rumbled lower than usual, rough and furious. “I should kill you.”

Dorian let his head fall back, exposing his throat. He’d read somewhere that if a wolf ever tried to attack you, the proper way to go about defending yourself was to lay on your back and bare your neck to them. Supposedly, this was so submissive and sycophantic that the angry wolf would have some confliction about tearing you open. Dorian, of course, wouldn’t do that if he met an angry wolf. He would shoot a fireball at it and that would be that.

But he wasn’t too keen about setting Fenris on fire. 

So he just said, “Take what you want.”

Fenris actually faltered, genuinely surprised, but then the anger returned and he was covering Dorian, smothering him with insistent heat, his teeth actually sinking into Dorian’s throat _hard_ , meant not only to hurt but to mark. That thought made Dorian groan, heat pooling in his belly and filling his cock, which Fenris completely ignored. _This isn’t about you,_ Fenris seemed to say as he rubbed and panted against Dorian’s skin, pinning him firmly. That stung, but not nearly as much as the rough parting of his thighs and the press of two spit-slick fingers inside of him, too much yet not enough. 

Dorian hissed in discomfort, twisting and shifting, trying to adjust before Fenris mercilessly added a third. Dorian squirmed. He could send Fenris flying halfway across the room at any moment. He could send him flying much farther than that. He could even cast a spell that would make this torturous feeling stop. But he did none of those things. He…he didn’t quite know why, but there was something about this damn elf, something fractured and warped that drew Dorian to him, that made Dorian want to have him any way he could, even if it left him cursing in pained strings of Tevene as Fenris finally pushed into him in one hard stroke. 

Dorian sucked in air frantically, hands trying to grasp and anchor himself and finding nothing but smooth marble, his nails scrabbling against the surface uselessly. “Please,” he found himself whispering, and Fenris started to move, each thrust more pain than pleasure, the elf’s teeth surely drawing blood where he’d bitten down on Dorian’s shoulder. His hands yanked Dorian’s hips back to meet every movement, driving deep and grinding unevenly against the spot that made Dorian want to sob. When he sped up it just made the sensation overwhelmingly worse, and Dorian could do nothing but claw at empty air as Fenris savagely chased his own release. The elf’s eyes shone with unbridled lust, the sounds falling from his kiss-swollen lips desperate and primal. Dorian just moaned quietly and let his body find rhythm with Fenris’s, hips sliding and colliding, sweat gathering in the dip of his collarbone, aching wherever Fenris touched him with more than just arousal. 

Dorian didn’t trust himself to touch Fenris. He didn’t know if he’d be able to control the magic sparking through his veins, begging to be released, the elf’s lyrium singing with the union of their bodies and making it so much more tempting to let go, to let his magic envelop them both with the raw energy of the Fade. It had made Fenris feel good before, it could do that again. Magic could do so much more than hurt, yet Fenris had never known anything but that side of it.

_Don’t let me hurt him,_ Dorian thought hazily as Fenris moved faster, faster, and buried his face against Dorian’s chest, trembling everywhere in sudden, startling vulnerability. Dorian felt it when Fenris came, silent save for the pounding of his heart against his own. The air was sour and thick with tension when Fenris rolled off of him, not meeting his eyes. Dorian sighed. He was still hard, but…looking at Fenris, knees curled up to his chest and head hidden in his hands, the need faded quickly. _I won’t hurt you._ He wasn’t sure if it was himself or his magic speaking. Maybe both.

He stood up shakily, wincing a bit as he left Fenris and closed the bathroom door behind him, eying his reflection warily in the mirror. It…could have been worse. His neck, of course, was ravaged with bruises, as were his hips. The bite on his shoulder had nearly torn skin, a perfect indentation of the elf’s teeth left behind. He wrinkled his nose. His hair was a mess. 

He put a palm over the left side of his chest, feeling the steady pump of his heart. Just to check. 

Dorian wasn’t entirely certain he knew what had just happened, but it wasn’t something he particularly wanted to happen again. In fact, he wondered if that was the last time something of that nature would happen between him and Fenris. Something in the elf had changed, a switch had been flipped, and Dorian wondered if his electricity had done more than hurt Fenris physically. “Kaffas,” he mumbled, swiping a hand across his face tiredly. “This is not what I meant when I said no strings attached.”

When he walked back into the bedroom, Fenris was still there. Dorian stopped in his tracks. The elf hadn’t moved an inch, except to shove his tunic off, leaving his chest bare and golden in the lamplight.

“Fenris?”

The elf twitched violently, raising his head, eyes widening when he saw Dorian like he hadn’t expected him to return to his own room or something. He flushed, ashamed, and hid his face again. Dorian took a step closer and he went very still.

“Fenris,” Dorian sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Why are you still here?”

For a few long moments, there was no answer. Then Fenris said, “I’m as bad as them, aren’t I?”

Dorian blinked. “Sorry, what?”

Fenris’s lip curled. “I’m as bad as them. The magisters. Danarius.”

Dorian blinked again. “What, pray tell, did you do to justify putting yourself on the same level as them?”

Fenris scowled. “I took what I wanted. From you. Like they did to me. Because I thought…because I thought it would make me feel better, somehow.”

Dorian let out his breath. “Ah. Well? Did it make you feel better?”

Fenris shook his head harshly. “No.”

“Well, that’s a relief. It definitely didn’t make me feel better,” Dorian told him, sitting down next to him with a wince that Fenris echoed empathetically. “So, if it didn’t make you feel better, then I’d say you’re not nearly as bad as that sadistic lot.”

Fenris furrowed his brow. “But I hurt you –”

“And I hurt you first,” Dorian interrupted. “And I won’t do it again.”

“You can’t promise that,” Fenris muttered. “You might have to –”

“I won’t,” Dorian said.

Fenris opened his mouth, then closed it. “Why?” he asked quietly.

Dorian considered his words carefully. “You’ve been hurt enough, haven’t you?” he finally said.

Fenris didn’t argue with that. He just closed his eyes and murmured, “Can I stay here tonight?”

Dorian wasn’t expecting that. “You want to?”

“I don’t want to be alone,” Fenris admitted. “I have…dreams.” He hunched his shoulders.

“Not very fun dreams, I’m guessing?”

“Nightmares.” Fenris hesitated. “Memories.”

“I see,” Dorian said, although he was quite sure he didn’t know the half of what Fenris had suffered at the hands of Danarius and presumably many others. “Well, I’m very good at snuggling. Snuggle all those bad dreams away, I say.”

Fenris snorted, seizing the moment of levity gratefully. “I do not _snuggle_ , mage.” But he was starting to smile. 

“Challenge accepted,” Dorian declared, making a big show of prancing over to the bed and throwing back the covers. Fenris watched him, unamused save for the telltale twitch of his mouth and ears. And he did, eventually, stand and pad over to the bed, settling against the soft mattress gratefully. Dorian snapped his finger and the lamps snuffed out, plunging them into cool darkness. Fenris shifted and settled a few inches away from Dorian, the elf’s back facing him. 

Dorian hesitated. Then he whispered into the darkness, “Are you in pain? From the lightning?”

Fenris stirred. “A…a little. But…it is bearable.”

“I can help,” Dorian offered, and the sheets rustled slightly. “If…if you want.”

Fenris exhaled. “With magic?”

“It won’t hurt,” Dorian said hurriedly. “I swear.”

Slowly, Fenris rolled to face him, and Dorian shrank back a little when his eyes reflected what little light remained in the room, glowing faintly like a cat’s. A creepy elf thing, probably. Yet oddly endearing. 

Fenris blinked, once, twice, and then he said, “You may try.”

“Really?”

Fenris rolled his freaky glowing eyes and shoved an arm out towards Dorian. “Before I change my mind.”

Gently, Dorian grasped his wrist, his thumb rubbing small, calming circles as golden light filled his palm, spilling out and washing over Fenris’s skin, skittering away from the lyrium and seeking out the hurt instead. He’d never been a particularly gifted healer, but this, he could do. Rather, undo, as he had caused this pain in the first place.

Fenris’s lashes fluttered and he relaxed against the pillows, the light sinking into him, the lyrium flickering and fading, leaving them in darkness once more.

“Better?” Dorian asked, withdrawing his hand. Fenris made a sleepy, affirmative noise. Relieved, Dorian grinned. “That’s adorable,” he said.

Apparently Fenris wasn’t fully asleep yet, because he dug his toes into Dorian’s thigh sharply.

Dorian just chuckled and poked his shoulder before rolling over and closing his eyes. “The snuggling offer is still on the table, just so we’re clear.”

Fenris grumbled. “Shut up, Dorian.”

“Your loss,” Dorian said.

But it didn’t feel like a loss at all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, this is a pretty long chapter. but i hope it tides you all over for the 2-ish weeks I will be gone!   
> This story is probably going to be 13 chapters long, possibly more but I'm really feeling 13 for now.   
> Thank you so much for your support!!

It was an odd thing, trusting a mage.

Alright, so maybe Fenris didn’t trust Dorian _completely_. He’d never quite forgiven him for the lightning incident, although they both knew Dorian hadn’t had much of a choice, and if he’d defied Quillian his loyalty and credibility would have surely been questioned. Despite that, Fenris knew he could never forget the sheer strength of the magic that had surged through him. He now knew firsthand exactly how powerful Dorian was, and yet…unlike many other mages, he didn’t abuse that power. He didn’t hold it over others, especially those considered lesser than him. It went against everything Fenris thought he knew.

Fenris never saw him strike the household slaves, with or without magic, and Dorian had certainly been given plenty of opportunities to use his magic against Fenris, yet he didn’t even use it in self-defense against the elf. He used it for…silly, mundane things, like lighting lamps, warming water, cleaning rooms, trimming hedges, and pranking Krem with mysterious moving cobblestones when he was trying to do some serious sword practice in the courtyard. And yet he also used it for the good of others. 

Once, a younger female slave was carried inside by another, her leg bleeding heavily from a pair of garden shears that had apparently been much too heavy for her to wield. Fenris expected Dorian would send her back to her quarters to rest and bandage herself up, but instead the mage _knelt_ before the slave as she was carefully deposited on the nearest sofa. He and Krem may or may not have gaped in bewilderment at the sight, their chess game completely forgotten. The other slaves didn’t seem quite as affected. Like this sort of thing happened often. 

Her face had been pale and drawn, knuckles bitten and bruised as she tried to stop herself from crying out in pain. “I’m sorry, Master Dorian,” she kept mumbling. “It won’t happen again –”

Dorian just blinked at her and shook his head. “This wasn’t your fault,” he told her, and then he touched his palm to her wounded calf and closed his eyes, that strangely comforting golden light wrapping around her thin leg and weaving the cut closed, a jagged scar remaining. When he opened his eyes again, he pursed his lips and looked at the scar ruefully. “Apologies,” he sighed. “I’m afraid I’m far better at blowing things up than putting them back together. But that should hold.”

She’d gasped in relief, a smile lighting up her face. “Master Dorian, I…I’ll return to the garden immediately, thank you –”

“No, no,” Dorian chastised, standing and brushing off his robes. “Take the rest of the day to rest. See if the kitchens will bring you some, ah…tea or something. I’m no doctor, but tea usually improves things, right?”

The slave who had brought her in chuckled quietly. “Yes, Master Dorian. I will find some suitable tea.”

“Good man,” Dorian told him, before turning back to the girl, who was tracing the new scar with wide-eyed wonder. “And you.” She straightened up guiltily. “Try to stay away from sharp objects for a while, yes? Perhaps you’d be better suited to the flowerbeds.”

“Yes, Master Dorian. Thank you.”

Fenris did not know what to make of the whole thing. It was all…backwards. Fenris had met many slaves, and most of them fit into three categories – the frightened ones, the bitter ones, and the favored ones. And some of them fit into all three categories, as he once had. But the Pavus slaves did not seem to abide by such rules. They were…he didn’t want to say happy, because that was ridiculous, impossible…but they smiled and laughed genuinely, they were well-fed and healthy, and they did not seem to adhere to the usual slave hierarchy he’d seen so often before. They were like…like a family more than anything, and oddly enough Dorian seemed to have a place in that family. 

They didn’t…they didn’t _fear_ him. They didn’t hate him, either. So how could they call him master? Why did they continue to serve a master who never punished them unless…unless they _wanted_ to serve him. The more he thought about it, the less impossible it seemed. For slaves, they were practically pampered. Perhaps they had no idea about how fortunate they were.

But he knew that wasn’t quite true. Rumors spread among slaves, stories passed down through households quickly and easily. Fenris didn’t miss the whispers about him, the looks they gave him as he passed – they were well-aware Danarius had not given him such liberties.

Danarius had not given him any liberties. 

At night, whether he was alone in the quiet coolness of his room or nestled against a warm body in larger, grander quarters, Fenris prayed. He never prayed to anyone in particular – not to the Maker, nor to Andraste, nor to the gods of the People who shared nothing in common with him except pointed ears and centuries of oppression. He just prayed to whoever might be listening, for he found it easier to believe someone or something was, somewhere. 

He prayed that the slaves here would never have to know what it felt like to be whipped or beaten or shouted into submission, that they would never know the sting of magic on their skin, that they would never be used and reminded that they were less than human. For some of them, like Avexus, such prayers came too late – Halward Pavus was not nearly as mild and forgiving as his son, and it was hard to miss the scars that knotted the older elf’s back, exposed whenever his tunic rode up. But for the ones who had been luckier…Fenris prayed their luck did not run out. Better yet, he prayed that one day, they would never have to worry about their master’s wrath, because they would not have a master. 

Such ideas were daunting and troubling, and Fenris slept less than he cared to admit.

But while the nights were filled with pensive musings, the days were a bit brighter. The good side to the damn lightning incident was the fact that Quillian’s trust in Dorian seemed to have increased exponentially, and the Red Crown was nothing short of thrilled about it all. Ghilani and Sparrow’s letters practically had confetti in them, they were so delighted. Along with Adrianna on their side, they were able to glean more information about the device that had troubled them from the start – the blood magic artifact Dorian called the Magrellan. 

According to Titus’s slaves, ever since the blood sacrifice at his party, slaves had stopped disappearing, so the Magrellan investigation had been temporarily halted. At least, that’s what Fenris had thought. Apparently, the two other mysterious heads of the Red Crown had been investigating it on their own. Ghilani and Sparrow were still very hush-hush about it all. Fenris, for the moment, could care less. He wasn’t exactly keen on searching for an insanely powerful blood magic machine, since his last encounter with one had gone…badly. 

So in the meantime, life settled into an odd sort of rhythm. 

Fenris liked to rise early – he refused to let himself settle into an illusion of comfortable, lazy domesticity, and preferred to wake up long before the snoring mage. Besides, the early hours were his favorite time of day – the house was barely awake, but more than that…the world was barely awake. In the glaring midday sun, Minrathous was a harsh and ugly place, but just before the dawn it was transformed into something softer, warmer, more _hopeful_. At least, that’s what Fenris saw it as. 

Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t hate Tevinter. It wasn’t as black and white as that. It was a twisted, corrupted place, yes – but he could not help but feel a certain sense of compatriotism when he gazed at the intricate spires and streets built by slaves so long ago. Mages were not truly responsible for the Imperium’s glory. Slaves were. Fenris would not forget that, and he would give them glory of their own, someday.

Dorian was a little more optimistic about Tevinter. He believed it could be reformed, somehow, and spent most of his days in his study, pouring over books and manuscripts that made Fenris’s eyes hurt. Krem preferred to spar with the other slaves and explore the surrounding city, and though Fenris often accompanied him, sometimes he actually helped Dorian in his endless research. 

The first time Fenris did so, it was because he was bored, and more often than not he found himself gravitating towards the mage. It was somewhat irritating.   
Dorian had looked up from the newest stack of books with a tired, bemused smile, a quill dangling from his fingertips as he scribbled notes on thin parchment. “Fancy seeing you here,” he said. The words sent a tremor through Fenris, a memory of that same man smirking at him from a bathtub. It seemed so long ago. So much had happened since then. So much had…changed. He wasn’t sure if it was for the better yet.

Fenris crossed the room and leaned against one of the shelves, arms folded. He felt off-balance in this room, this space that so clearly belonged to Dorian. It was, one might say, his domain, and Fenris felt out of his element. There were far too many words and not nearly enough greatswords here. “Have you found anything new?” he asked, glancing towards the mage. 

Dorian rubbed his temple. Fenris didn’t tell him he was smearing ink all over it. “Bits and pieces,” he sighed. “I managed to find some tomes explaining Danarius’s machine further…the magic he used was ancient and probably not unlike the Magrellan’s. I also gathered some information on House Quillian’s history…not a very riveting read, unfortunately. As for ways to save Tevinter without massive bloodshed? No idea.”

Fenris made a thoughtful sound. “Do you need help?”

Dorian looked at him, surprised. “I…suppose that would be beneficial. But don’t you have better things to do, like hitting sweaty men with sticks or something?”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “I’ve already sparred with Krem today,” he said. “You missed the show. I even oiled up my chest.”

Dorian’s gaze darkened immediately. It was just too easy to make him squirm. “That’s not fair,” he muttered. “I want an invitation next time.”

Fenris smirked. “No invitations. Maybe you’ll get lucky, though.”

Dorian snickered and peered at him from over the edge of a book called _Dragons and Disasters_. “I think I already have,” he said. Then he paused. “You can help, if you’d like. I’d appreciate it. If you find anything that screams blood magic, scandal, or rebellion, I want to hear about it.”

“So, half the library, then?” Fenris deadpanned. “Sounds simple enough.”

 

It was not that simple. By late afternoon, Fenris had the worst headache of his life and was about ready to tear the pages out in frustration. He’d thought himself to be decent enough at reading, but clearly he would have benefitted from more practice. The words swam on the page in front of him, and though he understood the general meaning, it made his head hurt to puzzle it out further. Swearing for the thousandth time that day, he threw the latest book over his shoulder. Dorian gave him a reproachful look. “Those are very expensive, you know,” he chided. Noticing Fenris’s sour expression and hunched shoulders, he set down a faded manuscript and leaned back in his chair invitingly. “You look like you need a break.”

Fenris caught onto his meaning and rose to his feet with a dramatic eye roll, approaching him slowly. “What I need is to strangle whoever wrote _Eggplant Trade in the Imperium_.”

Dorian chortled. “Why, exactly, did you think that material pertained to what we were looking for?”

Fenris shrugged. “Eggplants, blood magic, same difference.”

Dorian grinned. “He jests! You know, you really are awfully funny when you make an attempt not to be broody and angry all the time.”

Fenris frowned. “We can’t all be cocky and self-absorbed all the time.”

“Cocky? I’ll show you cocky!” Dorian exclaimed, and then he was out of his seat and Fenris was backed up against the bookshelves, his eyes wide. Dorian took a step back when he started to glow in alarm, holding his hands up with a slight smile before dropping to his knees before the startled elf. 

Fenris’s eyes darted down, his hands gripping the sides of the shelf behind him tightly. “Uh…what are you –”

“Giving you a break,” Dorian told him innocently, stroking up Fenris’s thigh, fingers hooking into the hem of his leggings (which really weren’t hiding anything at this point). Fenris’s knuckles turned ivory and he hissed when Dorian’s mouth found the jut of his hip, hot as a brand, licking and nipping carefully around the lyrium while his hand moved up, stroking him through the fabric leisurely. It was already damp.

Fenris would’ve glared at him if he wasn’t so _confused_. This was…he didn’t…it wasn’t that Dorian had never done this to him before, it was that he hadn’t done it like _this_. Kneeling, like a…like a…he swallowed roughly. “You don’t…you don’t have to do this,” Fenris whispered, and Dorian looked up at him, perplexed. “It’s…like this, isn’t it…demeaning for you?”

Dorian’s eyes flickered in a kind of sudden understanding. “No,” he replied. “I prefer this to doing it in bed, actually.” He tilted his head. “But if you don’t want to –”

Fenris’s brow furrowed. “No, I just…you like this?”

Dorian made a noncommittal sound but bowed his head slightly, moving it closer to Fenris’s cock and nuzzling against the thick bulge, breathing softly over it, fingers still teasing at his waistband. Fenris stared at him, wordless. Dorian looked up at him through lowered lashes. “Well? Do you want me, want my mouth on you? Sure looks like you do.”

Fenris bit the inside of his cheek and nodded once, tightly. 

Dorian grinned roguishly, yanking down the leggings and almost immediately burying his face against Fenris’s cock, not even sucking, just…kissing, licking, fingertips tracing maddeningly over his thighs and inward, closer, closer, closer…

Dorian pulled back, amused. “I think you’re going to break the shelves.”

Fenris looked at his hands. Sure enough, the shelves were bowing a little under his grip, and he quickly let go. “…Sorry,” he muttered.

Dorian shrugged. “It’s fine,” he said. “Just hold onto me instead.” Smirking, he took one of the elf’s shaking hands and placed it on his head, where his fingertips curled lightly into Dorian’s dark locks. Distantly, he wondered what could possibly make his hair feel so soft. The thought was distant because Dorian, without breaking eye contact, wrapped his lips around the tip of Fenris’s cock and started going down further, bracing his hands on Fenris’s thighs and then…

Then he slowly, deliberately, lifted his hands and crossed them behind his back. 

Willingly.

Fenris’s hips arched up from the shelves, and Dorian moaned around him appreciatively, which just brought Fenris even closer to the edge. He had to tear his gaze away from the mage kneeling for him, well aware of his hand twisting in Dorian’s hair, guiding him unconsciously as his hips jerked of their own accord, chasing the warm heat of Dorian’s mouth. Fenris wasn’t loud, he _wasn’t_ , but he was unable to stop cursing, groaning too loudly whenever Dorian did something with his tongue that should probably be illegal all across Thedas. However, Fenris was glad it was not. 

Dorian, on the other hand, was loud even with his damn mouth full, making choppy little noises deep in his throat, asking for more, not even resisting when Fenris gave it to him. When Fenris forced himself to look back down at him, his lips were slack and wet and soft and his eyes opened, half-lidded and strangely blissful, and that was it; that was all Fenris could take before his jaw dropped in silent ecstasy and he slumped against the bookshelves, numb and prickling with sensation everywhere.

When he worked up the energy and courage to look back at Dorian, the mage grinned at him, wiping a hand across the mess of spit and come on his chin. “You taste good,” he remarked, licking his lips. Fenris groaned again, and before his knees could give out he slid down to Dorian’s level, eying him hungrily. Dorian chuckled. “What, you want a taste too?”

Fenris pinned him to the floor with a kiss, slipping a hand into Dorian’s breeches straightaway and jacking him hard and fast, his palm sliding with sweat. Dorian gasped and clung to his shoulders, the sounds he made reverberating against their lips, lost in the kiss that tasted filthy and felt even more so. Dorian was obviously already aching, and after a few sharp twists of Fenris’s hand he was writhing and coming, a stuttered whimper caught between them as Fenris lifted his head, panting. 

Dorian exhaled after a pause and said with a faint smile, “Much more satisfying than research and eggplants, don’t you think?”

Fenris agreed wholeheartedly.

*

Although the going was slow, after several long afternoons they did eventually manage to sift through enough books and keep their hands off each other for long enough to find helpful information. It came in the form of a musty volume nearly as heavy as a war axe and twice as thick, although luckily Fenris only had to turn a few yellowed pages before he found what they were looking for.

Printed at the top of the page in heavy black text was the word _MAGRELLAN_. Below it was a strange diagram that Fenris studied carefully – it looked a bit like half an hourglass, except a human figure was suspended over the rounded glass vial by a large ring not unlike a breaking wheel. Fenris wrinkled his nose. Countless tubes and wires ran from the figure’s wrists, legs, and stomach, and it was chained to the wheel by heavy manacles around its arms and ankles so that it dangled spread-eagled over the glass vial where all the wires and tubes connected to. In the sketch, the vial was scribbled full of gray, but Fenris had a strong suspicion it was supposed to be full of blood. Like a giant, horrifying phylactery.

He glared at it. Would mages ever stop coming up with such disgustingly evil things?

Dorian must’ve noticed his displeasure because he asked, “What is it? Another eggplant book?”

Fenris shook his head, fingertips tracing over the scrawled letters. “It’s a drawing of the Magrellan. There are notes, too…” Dorian was on his feet at once, and Fenris resisted a shiver when the mage practically draped himself over the back of Fenris’s chair, peering over his shoulder with excitement. He seemed to be waiting for Fenris to start reading, so he cleared his throat a bit nervously and squinted at the first line. “The Magrellan’s real power comes from the Fade…it acts as a massive well of raw energy and when it is im…imbu…”

“Imbued,” Dorian supplied.

“When it is _imbued_ with the blood of a very powerful mage, the user gains a direct link to the Fade and can use this deep connection to…” He faltered, and it wasn’t because he didn’t understand the words. It was because he _did_ understand them. “To completely sever the connection of the Fade within others, even non-mages.”

Fenris leaned back and rubbed his eyes. Dorian gawked at the book with no small amount of dismay. “As much as I’d love to say you somehow misinterpreted that, you read it perfectly. Which means…”

“The Magrellan makes people Tranquil,” Fenris said. 

“But I don’t even…” Dorian shook his head. “It would take a tremendous amount of energy to make non-mages Tranquil, since their connection is so faint in the first place! Almost nonexistent!” He paused. “Although, you might have a stronger connection than most, Fenris...”

Fenris scowled. “Is that supposed to _comfort_ me?”

Dorian bit his lip, eyes unfocused as they scoured the page, clearly thinking hard about all this. Fenris sighed and let him ramble on. “There’s more on here,” Dorian said. “It’s just like what I was saying to Ghilani – the connection between the sacrifice and the artifact has to be severed before the artifact can be safely destroyed. Apparently the Magrellan needs not only blood, but a fairly constant supply of regenerating mana. And if that supply is cut off…it malfunctions, and loses its link with the Fade.”

“Wait,” Fenris muttered, “if it needs mana to work, then why was Titus sacrificing his slaves for it? They wouldn’t be much use to him…right?”

Dorian shrugged, baffled by the whole thing. “It does seem rather odd. Then again, maybe Titus didn’t yet _know_ only mage blood could make it work.”

“But the slaves have stopped disappearing now,” Fenris pointed out.

“Yes,” Dorian replied grimly. “Which means he must know they’re not enough.”

Fenris’s fists clenched. “So they all died for nothing, then.”

“Not quite true,” Dorian corrected. “If he hadn’t been taking slaves, we never would’ve found out he was trying to use the Magrellan in the first place.” He frowned. “We can’t let him activate this thing. If he did…at best, he could appoint himself Archon, at worst, he could bend half of Thedas to his will via mass brainwashing and mind control.” Dorian huffed and stood back, arms crossed. “Will they ever stop inventing more creative and dehumanizing uses for blood magic?”

Fenris was quiet. Then he said, “You’ve truly never practiced blood magic?”

Dorian stiffened. “No. Is that so hard to believe?”

“You’re stronger than ordinary mages,” Fenris replied. “Blood magic would be the quickest and easiest way to achieve such power.” His tone wasn’t flat-out accusing, simply stating facts, yet Dorian still looked a little upset at the suggestion, his pride clearly wounded.

“Yes, well, I didn’t,” he snapped. “I was born naturally gifted thanks to my parents’ _careful breeding_ , and studied under one of the most ingenious magisters of my time. I worked hard for my skill, because that was certainly preferable to slicing open some innocent and taking their power for my own. I’m not a greedy parasite like Titus or Quillian or half the other damn members of the Magisterium. Like my own father.” Dorian turned away, his shoulders tense and jaw set. For a few moments, Fenris felt the crackle of his magic in the air, anger letting his control slip just barely. His lyrium flared in remembrance and he watched the mage warily from where he sat.

Slowly, the tension left Dorian’s body and he sighed, shaking his head. “What did Avexus tell you about the blood ritual my father performed on me?”

“Just that you…” Fenris paused, looking at him with furrowed brows. “He…actually performed the ritual? Before you could stop him?”

Dorian was still turned away from him, but he nodded. “He bound me. Then he took out a knife and I knew what it was for, I knew what he meant to do and…the cut wasn’t very deep. A shallow slash, just here.” He held out his left wrist, dragging a fingertip across it horizontally. “It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but…it felt like drowning. I could feel the Fade _inside me_ …and it was tearing me apart, trying to use whatever pieces were left of me to make something new, something acceptable. A better Dorian. A better _son_.” 

His breath whistled out through his teeth. “Something made my father hesitate, his concentration broke, and I broke the bindings and blasted him ten feet in the air before running.” Dorian touched the spines of the books nearest to him, as if they comforted him, grounded him somehow. “This Magrellan could make my father’s failed ritual look like child’s play if Titus and the rest of the Venatori successfully activate it. I won’t allow it to happen. I _can’t_ let it happen.”

Fenris wasn’t really used to deep, soul-baring conversations. And he had no idea how to reply. So maybe that was why he just remarked offhandedly, “Danarius used blood magic on me often.”

Dorian turned towards him a little, expression unreadable. “He bled you?” he asked quietly.

“No. He…liked to give me a potion made with the use of blood magic and orichalcum.” Fenris didn’t elaborate.

“Orichalcum? But that’s…an aphrodisiac.” Suddenly Dorian was very pale. He turned around fully. “Fenris –”

But Fenris stood, leaving the book open on the desk. “I hope you find more of what you’re looking for,” he said, carefully impassive. “I should go. I promised Krem I’d go riding with him today.” It was a lie, but Fenris was not discussing this any further, not with Dorian, not with anyone. 

The mage thanked him softly and watched him go without another word, until Fenris was almost out the door. Then he said in a very strange tone, “Did Danarius suffer when you killed him?”

Fenris stopped, looked back at him. “I ripped his heart out.” The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “But not completely. Death comes slower that way.”

“Good,” Dorian said. Once again, Fenris felt his magic, but this time it was less like he was losing control and more like the power was building, bursting at the seams. Then the surge ceased and he waved a hand. “I’m sure Krem’s wondering where you are.”

Fenris hurried off.

*

It was after a gala at the Ignis estate when it happened.

Unlike most parties previous, this one had not ended in an awkward carriage ride or bodily harm. In fact…Fenris had enjoyed himself. Adrianna had handled the usual group of Venatori, enchanting them all with stories of her achievements and spinning tales so grand that it was easy for Krem, Dorian and Fenris to slip away. The three of them retreated to the sprawling gardens and traded stories of their own, their laughter a rare sound that became louder and louder the more wine they drank, until they were giggling and snorting like fools. 

Krem was regaling them with the time he and Bull had singlehandedly saved a toddler from an angry great bear with just a wheelbarrow and a cat when Dorian leaned against Fenris, draping an arm around his shoulders in a way that was not subtle at all. Krem stumbled over a word, eyes flicking from the elf to the mage, before continuing quickly. 

Fenris should’ve shoved Dorian away, should’ve kicked that terribly drunk mage off the bench, but instead he just rolled his eyes and drank more of the Aggregio. Between the alcohol and Dorian’s heat, Fenris felt very warm inside. It was…a good feeling, and he tried to make it last as long as possible.

Dorian offered to get more drinks once they’d exhausted their once-full glasses, and once he’d sauntered off Krem gave Fenris a _look_. 

“Are you two fucking?” Krem asked. Fenris blinked. This was why he liked Krem. He was always blunt and to the point. Fenris shrugged and nodded. Krem didn’t bat an eyelash. “How long?”

Fenris blinked. “Uh…” He tried to count the days in his head, tangled as they were.

“Wait, let me guess,” Krem interrupted, eyes narrowed. “After Quillian’s party, when he ditched you for the last time and you wouldn’t stop glaring at him in the carriage? And after that, coincidentally, Dorian stopped sleeping with that bratty blonde mage boy and practically growled at any party guests who so much as looked at you? It doesn’t take a genius, Fenris. And that was _two months ago_.”

Fenris wished he had more wine, and mentally told Dorian to hurry up. “What’s your point, Krem? You and Sparrow are more than just friends too; anyone with eyes can see that.”

Krem raised an eyebrow, smirking a little. “Dorian’s your _friend_?”

Fenris’s denial died on his lips when Dorian stumbled back into their small courtyard with a full bottle in his hands, excitedly saying something about the pantries being remarkably well-stocked before nearly dropping it, saved by Krem’s reflexes. Fenris was too tipsy to be catching wine bottles, so he just leaned back and listened to his friends talk, oddly relieved when a strong arm wrapped around him again. For the first time since they’d arrived in Tevinter, he felt safe. 

It wasn’t an illusion of safety like before, either…he could feel the sheer power thrumming under the dark skin pressed against his, and he knew that power would be used to defend him, to kill if need be. He couldn’t explain why he was so sure that Dorian wouldn’t hurt him again, but…whenever Fenris touched him, Dorian’s energy surged like it had in his study, fiercely, protectively. He was so drunk; he probably couldn’t control the surges at all. Between that and Fenris’s lambent lyrium, the whole night was very distracting, and Dorian ended off dragging Fenris away to catch a carriage after Krem unexpectedly met Sparrow on his way to get a third round of drinks. It was probably a good thing that those drinks never came, because Fenris felt all pliant and floaty and Dorian was giggling madly at the tiniest things. 

The carriage ride turned into Dorian trying to climb into Fenris’s lap while sniggering about something or other, squawking when they hit a bump and his head smacked into the ceiling, sending them both into a fit of laughter. Dorian clutched his head and tried to look indignant, but couldn’t keep a straight face with Fenris chuckling at him. Then Fenris very seriously patted his knee and made a ‘come here’ gesture with his finger. Dorian crawled towards him, placed a hand on his thigh and started to lift up the hem of his tunic, leaning close to his stomach…

…and then he blew a raspberry right against his belly, cackling when Fenris yelped and wriggled, pushing him away and wiping mage spit off his skin with an exaggerated growl, glad when the carriage stopped in front of the familiar grounds of the Pavus estate. Dorian barely managed to pay the driver before they hauled themselves out of the vehicle, walking unsteadily and hanging off each other for support. It seemed fairly obvious Dorian wasn’t going to make it to the house, much less upstairs and in his bedroom, so Fenris steered them off to the right through the dark, empty gardens. 

Dorian didn’t protest, just stumbled right after him, head tipped up to gaze at the stars with infinite wonder. “Beautiful,” he kept saying, to both the stars and Fenris, as if they were one in the same. They reached a trellis covered in something dark and blooming, a small stone bench beneath it, and Fenris pushed Dorian ‘til he sat down on it heavily, petting at Fenris’s sides as the elf tugged his gauntlets off. Dorian grinned at him and he was so _happy_ , so bright that Fenris couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop himself from falling, leaning down and kissing him with unfamiliar tenderness.

The kiss broke when Fenris dropped to his knees, nudging Dorian’s thighs apart and settling between them easily. The mage froze, his hands heavy on Fenris’s shoulders, eyes wide and lips parted. The color was high in his cheeks as he said, “You don’t have to –”

But this wasn’t about obligations, this wasn’t about duty, this wasn’t about orders. This was about the way Fenris’s heart stuttered as Dorian met his eyes, the pleasant warmth in his head and chest, the desire that thudded through him, more insistent when he began to undo the ties to Dorian’s robes. His hands were steady, firm, decisive. “I want to,” he told him, sitting up taller so that their eyes were nearly level, gray to green. Dorian cupped his face, and suddenly all traces of drunken hilarity were gone. His thumb slid lightly across Fenris’s lower lip, and Fenris let him, tilting his head. 

“Beautiful,” Dorian said again, hushed, and this time Fenris knew he wasn’t talking about the stars at all.

Fenris huffed and batted his hand away, hesitating before saying, “Put your hands behind your back. Like…like last time.”

Dorian’s breath caught but he did as he was told, watching Fenris curiously. Waiting. It was still a difficult concept to grasp, the idea that this mage would actually take orders from him.

No. It was more than that. This mage actually trusted him.

Fenris shoved the robes to the side, closely followed by smallclothes, and did not wait for anyone’s permission before fitting his hand around the base of Dorian’s cock and dipping his head, kissing the tip until the first taste blossomed on his tongue. He half-expected a harsh hand to shove him down, but there was nothing except Dorian’s thigh trembling under his palm and the heavy weight of Dorian’s gaze on him.

Fenris mouthed down a bit farther, teasing expertly, wringing a low groan from Dorian when his hand squeezed tight, another pleading sound when his fingers left Dorian’s thigh and trailed inwards, tracing sensitive skin. Making sure the mage was watching, he lifted his fingertips to his mouth and sucked them in, swirling his tongue around obscenely and pulling them out dripping with spit. Dorian’s chest heaved and Fenris nudged at his hole with one finger, still lapping at the head of his cock insouciantly. 

Dorian chewed his lip, eyes wild and desperate already. “Fenris –”

“Beg me for it,” Fenris shot back, because attractive and charming as he was, Dorian was still a pampered, prideful brat at times. And he wanted to see the other side of that. He wasn’t disappointed. 

“Please,” Dorian whispered, blush darkening when Fenris pulled off with a wet pop, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

“Please _what_?”

“Please suck me off,” Dorian murmured, tipping his hips up. “Please, please, whatever you want, just do _something_.”

“I did have a few things in mind,” Fenris mused, and then his lips parted and he sank down until his lips met his hand, and then further, Dorian’s length hot, heavy silk in his mouth and throat. He could feel how much Dorian was holding back, his hips shuddering as Fenris held him down against the bench, pinning him between his tongue and then his fingers, which were met with little resistance as Dorian moaned and opened easily for him. 

The mage started squirming urgently, breathy whines filling the air when Fenris’s fingers twisted and rubbed hard against his spot, cheeks hollowing as he gave his cock a long suck. Dorian’s hips did jump up that time, and he started to choke out an apology but Fenris let him feel a sting of teeth before grabbing Dorian’s ass and tugging him closer.

Dorian got the message and thrust up carefully, letting Fenris guide him with increasing roughness and friction, fingers curling and stroking inside of him as he did so. The mage’s head fell back, like he was trying to see the stars through the trellis vines, mouth full of bitten-off curses and moans. Fenris was lost in the sensation of it, feeling the telltale kick of Dorian’s pulse just before he hissed out a warning and arched up, warmth flooding Fenris’s mouth. 

He swallowed instinctively, though it didn’t leave him with the same feeling of disgust as it had in the distant past. It left him just as wanting as before, fingers still curled deep, and Dorian pawed at his breeches until they puddled at his feet, baring him to the night air, shockingly cool on his burning cock. Maybe at another time he would have been embarrassed by the way it stood out darkly from his body, his arousal painfully obvious, but there was no shame between them, especially not then.

“Fuck me, fuck me,” Dorian repeated like a mantra, legs spreading and cock already filling out again slightly, making Fenris’s own throb at the sight. Dorian fumbled with the vials at his belt, unhooking one and shoving it in Fenris’s hands. Uncapped, the smell of lavender wafted around them, and Fenris growled, pouring half the damn thing on his palm and groaning as he slicked himself up, letting it fall to the grass carelessly. He had bigger priorities.

 

Dorian writhed on Fenris’s cock, legs encircling his waist tightly. He was in constant motion underneath him, running hands through Fenris’s hair and over his hips and back and gasping endearments and filthy suggestions that made the elf blush. The edge of the marble bench dug sharply into Fenris’s upper thighs and the position was awkward and their bodies were twisted up uncomfortably but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Not when Dorian was kissing all along his neck and ear and holding him securely, asking him to come, _come for me, you’re so beautiful, come on, come on, come on_ –

Fenris let himself sink into a comforting embrace, leaning into the broad palm that touched his cheek, pulling him in for a kiss. He was dizzy, whether from the drink or the overpowering flowers, he wasn’t sure. Dorian swayed a bit as he sat up, but he had enough coordination left to tug Fenris into his lap, legs tangling, hands stroking, foreheads touching.

Dorian said it one last time. “Beautiful.” Quiet. Reverent. Painfully genuine.

Fenris nuzzled his neck, breathing in his scent and trying to memorize it, for…for later. After. He sighed. “I will miss this,” he admitted, the drink loosening his tongue. “When this is all over.”

Dorian exhaled. “Yes,” he said. “All good things must come to an end.” He brushed a stray strand of silver hair away from Fenris’s face. “Not yet, though.”

“No,” Fenris agreed. “Not yet.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm back from my trip to europe! being in italy definitely gave me some inspiration for tevinter/this story...I have a goal to finish it up quite soon since I start school again in about a week (ugh) and after that it'll be hard to keep updating consistently. I'll try my best in the meantime.
> 
> enjoy and thank you so so much for your comments and kudos.

After many frustrating dead-ends, Krem had finally managed to contact one of his old acquaintances, a man who oversaw ships that specialized in smuggling slaves and other illegal ‘goods’ out of the country. Although Dorian had his doubts about the man being able to help, Krem assured him that the man was trustworthy considering his line of work, and very resourceful. And after he conferred with Sparrow, she seemed very supportive of the idea. In fact, her enthusiasm was a little suspicious, as if she knew something about this ‘acquaintance’ that they did not. Dorian wouldn’t be surprised – the little elf was filled to the brim with secrets. 

So there they were, an irritable elf, an optimistic soldier, and a dashing mage, waltzing down increasingly dirty and narrow streets in the vague direction of the docks. Dorian was more than a little ashamed to admit that this part of the city was not unfamiliar to him – the high-end brothels were not nearly as discreet as the ones here. This part of the city wasn’t quite the slums, but it certainly wasn’t teaming with Altus mages dressed in silk robes with gilded staffs and perfect hair. Silently, Dorian cursed his lack of forethought as they attracted more than a few stares from passerby. Fenris’s shock of white hair and peculiar tattoos were not helping.

Krem, however, seemed to blend right in. His armor was scuffed and simple enough so as not to be overly extravagant, and his demeanor was easy and relaxed in a way Dorian hadn’t even seen in the walls of Skyhold. Krem, for many reasons, always seemed to be slightly on edge, on guard; but here in the streets he’d grown up on he was a new man. 

“He said he’d arranged to meet us at the East Docks, on a ship flying a red and gold flag,” Krem told them over his shoulder, turning left through an alleyway that Dorian’s nose did not appreciate. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he sent a middleman instead of just meeting us outright. He likes to keep a low profile.”

“What’s this man’s name?” Dorian asked, trying to breathe through his mouth as much as possible. 

“No clue,” Krem replied. “Never asked. If he wanted to tell me it, he would’ve. All you need to know is that he’s a damn good businessman.”

“Smuggler,” Fenris muttered.

“Same difference.” Krem turned again, and they were back on a broader street that smelled slightly less offensive, lined with various shops and taverns. Krem smiled, and his voice was a little nostalgic. “I used to go out for drinks here back in my army days,” he murmured. “Seems so long ago –”

“Aclassi? Is that you?”

Krem froze, and Dorian glanced to his right, where three men were leaving a tavern and staring at them. They were all in the armor and colors of the Imperium, and it didn’t take long for Dorian to put two and two together. Krem’s carefree demeanor was gone. “ _Shit,_ ” he said, sounding more panicked than Dorian had ever heard him.

“Aclassi!” one of the men cried again, this time louder, more certain, and very upset. “Damn deserter!”

More eyes turned upon them. Krem gritted his teeth. 

“I’d say now would be an excellent time to run,” Dorian suggested.

Krem didn’t need any more encouragement, and broke into a sprint in the middle of the crowded avenue, Fenris and Dorian close at his heels. Dorian had hoped that perhaps seeing an Altus would dissuade the soldiers, but he was dismayed to hear the heavy thud of boots on stone behind them, growing louder by the second. 

“Friends of yours?” Dorian quipped as they rounded a corner sharply, cool shadow from the ramshackle buildings washing over them. 

Krem glanced behind them – the soldiers were slower than them, but not by much. “No,” he panted, shaking his head and skidding into another alley. 

“Can’t keep running forever,” Fenris grunted. “Hide.”

“Where?!” Krem snapped, hauling Dorian up just before he nearly tripped on a dead bird. “If they catch me –” Genuine fear lanced through his words. Fenris and Dorian exchanged troubled looks. All of them knew exactly what would happen to Krem if they caught him, and this time he wouldn’t be able to escape it. Dorian supposed they could always kill the men as a last resort, but that would raise far too many questions.

Resolutely, Dorian tugged Krem by the arm into the next alley. A plan was forming in his mind – a ridiculous plan that they were all going to hate, but it would have to do. Krem and Fenris followed until it became clear it was a dead end. Krem cursed angrily, yanking away from Dorian, eyes wide with panic. “What’re you thinking?! Now they’ll catch up for sure –”

“Sorry in advance,” Dorian said, and then magic flared to life in his hands, swirling up into the air around them and falling back down in a golden mist that clung to their clothes and skin. They coughed for several seconds as the mist settled, and when it did Dorian bit his lip and eyed them critically. “Well,” he said after a pause, “considering the lack of preparation, I’d say it’s a decent enough disguise. What do you think?”

Krem gaped down at himself. Then he looked back up, arms crossed over his now rather busty chest. “What the fuck, Dorian,” he said conversationally. 

“I think the curly hair was a nice touch,” Dorian said, nodding to Krem’s long auburn locks. Krem wrinkled his nose. 

Although Fenris was seething, Dorian decided he made a very pretty woman, and a very pretty brunette too. He should really try growing his hair out longer. “What did you _do_ ,” he snarled, practically ripping at the edges of his frilly skirts. They were pink. Dorian hadn’t even planned that! Mentally, he gave his magic a pat on the back.

“I’m quite sure they won’t recognize us now,” Dorian replied smoothly, leaning back against the wall. “Although, please don’t say anything, Fenris, or they’ll definitely figure out you’re not a woman.” When both of them kept gawking at him with mixtures of shock and outrage, he waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, calm down. It’s a temporary illusion spell. You’ll be back to your manly armored selves within the hour. How do I look?”

Krem relaxed a little, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Alright, but you should’ve left the mustache,” he replied. “That would really confuse ‘em.”

Dorian grinned.

Meanwhile, Fenris was growling, until he looked at the skin of his bare arm and paused. “You…can’t see the lyrium.”

“Obviously I had to do away with that,” Dorian said. “I doubt there are many working girls with lyrium tattoos around here. Or anywhere.” He tilted his head. “The tattoos are still there, you know, along with everything else. Just hidden.”

“I see,” Fenris muttered. Then he spluttered, “Working girls?!”

Dorian snickered. “I think I hear them coming. Quick, let’s pretend we’re gossiping or something. And Fenris, take that scowl off your face or I’ll add a smile to your illusion.”

Before Fenris could protest, the three soldiers passed by, mumbling amongst themselves and glancing furtively around. “Coulda sworn they went this way,” one said. 

The other two nodded, and then the first one saw the trio and stopped walking. “Hey! You girls seen anyone pass by here just now? Three men?”

“More like two and a half,” another chuckled. 

Krem stiffened angrily and Dorian touched his hand softly before calling back in a high voice, “Can’t say I have, soldier!”

“One was an Altus,” the soldier continued, stepping into the little alley with a furrowed brow. “And there was an elf with freaky white hair. But the one we’re lookin’ for specifically is a deserter. Dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes…sure you haven’t seen ‘im?”

“Quite sure,” Dorian shot back, raising an eyebrow. “Run along now, soldier. Your friends are probably getting away.”

“She’s right,” one of them said. “C’mon. If we catch Aclassi, the Captain’ll be really pleased. He’s been wantin’ a good public hanging for weeks now.”

Krem flinched and instinctively touched his throat, swallowing. Dorian tried very hard not to set all three men on fire where they stood. They were lucky he had excellent control. Instead he just put on a simpering smile and said, “Good luck, soldiers.”

They nodded at him and continued on, though one lingered behind, eyes fixed heavily on them. “Say, you ladies looking for a little extra coin tonight?”

Fenris’s anger was palpable. Dorian quickly interjected, “Not working tonight, soldier. But drop by The Morning Star tomorrow evening…and I’m sure we can arrange something.”

He grinned, and Dorian noted with no small amount of disgust that his teeth were piss-yellow. Thank the Maker he wasn’t really a ‘working girl,’ or he might have vomited. When he (finally) ran after his fellows, the three of them collectively breathed a sigh of relief and Krem slumped against Dorian’s shoulder gratefully. “That was close,” he said. “Too close.”

“Yes, well, thanks to my quick thinking and incredible acting skills, the day is saved.” Dorian patted Krem’s back. “You’re welcome.” Krem rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

“You’re a natural,” Fenris deadpanned. 

“Why, thank you!”

“Perhaps you were truly meant to be a prostitute instead of the scion of House Pavus –”

Dorian glowered at him. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I can make your illusion spell last the whole day, if you’d prefer.”

Fenris shrugged noncommittally. “Take it as a compliment, mage.”

Krem coughed. “Not that your passive aggressive flirting isn’t extremely entertaining or anything, but we need to get to that ship.”

“Then let’s go!” Dorian exclaimed, going back to the main street. Fenris and Krem didn’t move. “Oh, what is it now, you two?”

“We’re not going like _this_ ,” Krem said flatly. He shook his head and his long ringlets bounced with it. 

Dorian gave them both a sympathetic look. “Apologies, but I can’t reverse the spell. It has to wear off on its own, I’m afraid. Maybe it’ll be gone by the time we get there! Maybe...”

“Remind me that I’m going to kill you later,” Fenris told him.

Dorian smirked. “Your bark is worse than your bite, my friend. Besides, you have nothing to worry about – pink really is your color. It just goes _so_ well with your eyes.”

Fenris huffed. “At least I don’t look like a whore. A dishrag would cover you more than your sad excuse for a dress.”

Dorian winked and sashayed his hips. “You know you love it.” Fenris turned red.

Krem snorted. “I think I liked it better when you two hated each other.”

“Nothing’s changed there,” Fenris muttered, but it wasn’t very convincing. And on their way to the docks, Dorian caught him looking thoughtfully at the pink fabric more than once.

*

As Krem had predicted, his mysterious contact had a middleman meet them on the ship. Or, more accurately, a middlewoman. Named Isabela. On a ship named the _Siren’s Call II_. Fenris had met Isabela in plenty of unpleasant and or compromising situations before, but this was way up there among the worst. Mainly because she had doubled over laughing as soon as they introduced themselves, to the point where she started crying mirthful tears uncontrollably. Fenris suspected she hadn’t heard any good jokes in a long, long time.

“So wait, wait,” Isabela cackled, wiping her eyes, “let me get this straight – you let this fancy pants mage turn you into a lady? Fenris! You’ve really been letting yourself go since I last saw you! What happened to my favorite ‘ _What has magic touched that it doesn’t spoil_ ’ boy?”

“I do not sound like that,” Fenris grumbled. 

“Oh, he’s still in there,” Dorian replied cheerfully, tying his hair up with one of Isabela’s ribbons and admiring it in the nearest mirror. “Hidden under many, many layers of pink taffeta!”

“I’m going to kill him,” Fenris told her with a sigh. 

She grinned. “Sure you are.” Isabela turned to Krem. “So! You’re the mysterious Aclassi Junior I’ve heard so much about!” At Krem’s confused expression, her mouth opened slightly. “Oh…you don’t know. Your father worked aboard my ship for a while, after his debts were paid off in Tevinter. Talked about you all the time.”

Krem blinked. “He…really?” Krem wet his lips and asked quietly, “Was he…is he alright?”

Isabela smiled. “Right as rain, sweetheart. He’s a good man, great sailor too. I’m afraid he works aboard Antivan vessels these days, but last I saw him he played a mean game of Wicked Grace and mended my best shirt for me. He’s a miracle worker! The poor thing was nearly shredded in half from a run-in with some sharks last summer…he made it good as new.”

Krem smiled back a little. “That does sound like him.” He hesitated. “What did he say about me?”

Isabela leaned back in her chair, considering. “He always sounded proud of you,” she told him. “Said you were a lot like him. And that he missed you. I bet he’d like to see you again.”

Krem swallowed and looked down. 

“Anyway!” Dorian said after an awkward beat of silence. “Family reunions are all well and good, but we were promised help in the smuggling department. So what do you have to offer?”

Isabela smirked. “I have plenty of things to offer,” she replied, “although I assume you’re not referring to those.” She looked at the three of them with pursed lips. “You’re in league with the Red Crown, yes? There’s been rumors about them starting a slave rebellion for ages now. Are they any closer to doing that?”

Fenris cut in. “It is…complicated,” he said carefully. “Many magisters have formed a cult obsessed with restoring Tevinter’s former glory by use of blood magic. We aim to…dispose of them before they have the chance.”

“Let me guess,” Isabela said grimly, “they’re using slaves for this blood magic business?”

Dorian nodded. “Well, they were…they seem to have ceased those activities as of late, thankfully…”

“Actually, a new batch disappeared just last night,” Isabela said innocently, studying her nails before looking back up at them with a mischievous tilt to her lips. 

Fenris’s brow furrowed. “How did you –”

Isabela tilted her chair back and called out, “You two can come out now. Despite their magical breasts, I think we can rest assured that these are your boys.”

The door to the captain’s quarters creaked open and two shadowy shapes stood in the doorway, their heads tilted in unison, pointed ears outlined sharply against the glare of the sun behind them. “Hello,” they said, voices lilting and nearly identical. The taller one stepped forward. “I’m Avis,” he said. Then the shorter one. “And I’m Mavis.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes at the strange elves. They had to be twins – both with hazel skin and shaggy black hair that nearly hid their dark, beady eyes which watched the trio keenly. They were free elves – their clothes were too odd and mismatched to be a slave’s – but they had a cautious sort of bearing that Fenris knew all too well. They had been slaves once, then. 

“You are a gifted mage to produce such convincing illusions,” Mavis murmured, looking at Dorian with interest. As if on cue, Fenris felt an odd, warm tingling sensation wash over him, and when the feeling was gone, so was that wretched pink dress and everything that had gone along with it. Unfortunately, the lyrium returned as well, and the two elves’ gazes turned to him with intense, unnerving curiosity.

“Fenris,” said Avis. “So good to finally meet you. Let us hope you do not disappoint.” He then turned to Krem. “And you. Sparrow has told me much about you. But she did not tell you who we were, did she? Of course. She always keeps secrets.”

“We’re all ears,” Dorian said, looking a bit sad over the loss of his long hair and ridiculous dress. Krem, on the other hand, looked thrilled to be back in his heavy armor with shorn short hair.

Avis hummed thoughtfully. “You have met Adrianna Ignis? Years ago, her father was our master. Until he freed us. You have heard this story before.”

“You,” Fenris said. “You were Ignis’s pet.”

Avis’s mouth twisted derisively. “The pot calling the kettle black,” he said. Fenris bristled. “And no. I was no pet. We loved each other.” Fenris scoffed, but Avis just sighed. “You could never understand. It was real. In another life, in another world, we would have married. Had children. But it was not to be.”

Mavis touched her brother’s shoulder. “And in another world, a better world, Adrianna would have become Archon. She would have changed so much…she would have freed more, as many as she could. But it was not to be.”

“You’re the other heads of the Red Crown,” Krem said. “The ones investigating Titus…”

“We are doing so much more than that,” Avis replied. “We are giving Adrianna the future she deserves.”

“Trapped in the Magisterium, she will someday be forced to marry, to make cruel laws among crueler people…but there is a way to free her from that cycle.” Mavis’s eyes were full of determination.

Avis nodded. “Adrianna was forced into the position as her father’s only heir.” He paused. “But we have done some digging, and she is not the last Ignis. She has a cousin. He left for Antiva around the time her parents passed, however…if he returned and agreed to become a magister in her stead, it would allow her to step down and accept the Archon’s offer of apprenticeship.” 

Mavis grinned. “After that…all it would take is a clever knife, a drop of poison, a convenient mistake…and the current Archon would be no more. Adrianna would make the reforms we have been waiting so long for. A violent uprising would no longer be necessary. Though there are some…obstacles.”

“The Venatori,” Fenris muttered. “We are well aware of their blood magic mess.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow at Avis. “You said Titus has started taking slaves again? For the Magrellan?”

Avis inclined his head. “Yes. Though my sister and I work outside of the city for obvious reasons, our operatives within Titus’s estate say he has been buying and taking any and all slaves who are also mages.”

Dorian cursed. “He’s figuring out how to use the damn thing correctly!”

“Not quite,” Mavis said. “If he had succeeded, we would all be under his control, or Minrathous would be overrun by demons. Or both. And since neither of those things have happened…we must only assume that he has not yet discovered a key that works.”

“But he is close,” Avis cautioned. “The Venatori are planning something, soon. You must discover what it is, and when it is.”

“And if we don’t,” Dorian muttered, “any and all hope for the Imperium’s non-evil future ends? Wonderful. No pressure or anything.”

Fenris snorted.

Krem crossed his arms. “We can do it.”

Mavis’s grin grew. “I like him.”

Isabela had been listening to them with wide eyes. She whistled lowly. “Damn, no offense but I’m going to stay far, far away from Tevinter for, oh, I don’t know – the next year or so? Let me know when the mind control is safely out of the picture, yeah?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Fenris told her dryly.

“Oh, good,” she said. “It’s a real shame Tevinter’s so full of problems. The wine here is to die for.” She giggled. “No pun intended.”

“Agreed,” Avis said. “Ah, Isabela…don’t forget your part in all of this.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “Guess I can’t flee like any sane person would do…” She sighed and straightened. “My, uh… _associates_ and I will be smuggling as many slave mages as we can out of the country, especially those belonging to Titus. Not only will it slow him down, it also provides a handy little army in case rebellion ends up being the only solution.”

Krem nodded. “Good thinking. The more time you can buy us, the better.”

Dorian raked a hand through his hair. “Are we done here? Not that this conversation isn’t lovely and important, it’s just that all this talk of politics and slave kidnappings and extremely powerful blood magic slash the impending threat of mass Tranquility is really not good for the soul, and I can literally feel myself getting wrinkles as we speak. Which is unacceptable.”

Isabela nodded vigorously in agreement. “Who wants a drink? We just got a new shipment of Antivan brandy belowdecks – six kegs ready and ripe for the opening.”

Fenris sniffed. “Something tells me this is not legally obtained brandy.”

“Now, what makes you think that?” Isabela asked with mock hurt. “C’mon. Drinks for everyone.”

“Wicked Grace?” Krem suggested.

“Brilliant idea,” Isabela crowed. “Loser gets a super embarrassing illusion spell cast on them!”

Dorian frowned. “What if I lose? I’d just cast a stunning spell of somehow even greater beauty over myself, and that wouldn’t be fair –”

Mavis held up her hand, which crackled with frost. “Surprise,” she said.

Fenris heaved a very dramatic sigh.

*

Fenris watched the cutthroat game with mild amusement, sipping the dregs of his drink and enjoying the warm buzz spreading through his body. He’d withdrawn from the game early on – it was far more fun to watch everyone else play (or cheat excessively, in Dorian’s case). Avis and Mavis were good but not as good as Isabela and Krem, who didn’t break eye contact for a solid five minutes, their faces screwed up in concentration. Isabela had also invited her first mate to join them, a stoic blond elf called Brand who was sitting on the other side of Dorian and playing far better than the deceitful mage.

Fenris stretched and slumped further back in his chair, momentarily distracted by a moth fluttering around the lamp on the table…it just kept slamming itself against the hot glass, futilely trying to reach the flame inside. But if it ever did reach the flame…it would just burn. What was the point? He furrowed his brow. 

His musings were cut off by a movement to his right, where Dorian sat – when he looked over, Dorian was leaning close to Brand, laughing about something or other, his cheeks flushed darkly and his hand curling over the back of the pirate’s chair. Brand watched him with quiet amusement, though he didn’t move away, smiling slightly. 

Fenris’s jaw worked. _You have no claim to him,_ he told himself. _He is all too used to sleeping with whomever he likes, a different man for every night of the week…_

Dorian tossed his head back and laughed, Brand’s smile widening. 

_But he has had you and only you for months now,_ the little voice continued. _Does that mean nothing to him?_

_To you?_

Fenris hated himself for the sick curl of envy in his gut that grew as the two men continued talking, focusing more on each other than on their cards. Unconsciously, his lyrium started to glow, brighter and brighter until a hush fell over the room and Isabela set down her cards, giving him a concerned look.

“Everything alright, Fenris?” she asked.

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the wooden planks harshly. Everyone was looking at him, Dorian most of all. Uncomfortable and irritated, he ducked his head and turned away, grabbing his drink. “I just need some air.”

He hurried out of the mess hall and up the stairs, the sea air a relief as he emerged abovedecks. He stalked over to the ship’s rail, staring down at the waves and clutching his drink tight in his hands. The lyrium flickered sympathetically before fading back to dull silver scars. Fenris groaned and drank the rest of his brandy in one gulp, wincing at the burn in the back of his throat. He tossed the mug into the ocean. It hit the water with a satisfying splash.

He wanted another drink, but he didn’t want to have to see Dorian laughing with Brand again, like it was so easy, like it didn’t matter. Maybe it didn’t matter to him. So why did it matter to Fenris? 

“You’re missing all the fun.”

Fenris tensed as Dorian strode up to the rail, leaning on it next to him. The mage was tipsy, but not drunk. Another angry surge went through him – Dorian knew exactly what he was doing, flirting with Brand shamelessly and now he actually had the gall to come up here and try the same thing with Fenris? His markings flickered again, brighter. Warning.

Dorian hesitated. “Fenris? Something wrong?” He frowned. “Don’t you want to come back and play another round?”

Fenris hunched his shoulders, the words spilling out furiously before he could stop them. “Wouldn’t you rather play with Brand?”

Dorian was quiet. Then he said, amused and surprised, “Are you…oh, Maker, you are. You’re _jealous_!”

Fenris scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t care.”

Dorian smirked. “Really. So you wouldn’t care if I went back right now and offered to show him just how clever my tongue can really be –”

Fenris whirled, slamming him against the bulwark faster than either of them could blink, silently fuming. Dorian kept grinning infuriatingly. “Don’t you dare,” Fenris hissed.

“I thought you said you didn’t care? You’re sending very mixed signals here.”

Fenris glared at him. “Does this clear it up for you?” He tilted his head and kissed Dorian fiercely, hands fisting into his robes, cupping his waist and ass possessively, hips grinding forward and pinning him in place. Dorian opened up for it easily, moaning against his mouth and clutching at Fenris’s shoulders, nails digging in when Fenris bit his lower lip before breaking away. 

They stood there, breathing heavily, Dorian’s leg wrapped halfway around Fenris’s thigh before the mage chuckled. “I was going to say jealousy doesn’t suit you, but on the contrary I think I should make you jealous more often.”

Fenris made a disgusted noise and stepped back, shaking his head. “You’re impossible,” he said.

*

Fenris had dreams often. Sometimes they were memories, sometimes they were nightmares, and sometimes they were just ordinary dreams like most people had. The one he had that night was somehow none of those. He was standing on a cold, dark surface like obsidian, except it was reflective and endless and when Fenris looked up there were no stars, just never-ending nothingness. 

He knew, somehow, that he should not call out. He didn’t what whatever else was here to hear him. Because he also knew that he wasn’t alone here.

He started to walk and as he did the air started to get warmer, heavier, thicker, a metallic smell washing over him and giving him goosebumps. Then he saw something amongst the unchanging blackness – a crumpled mass of blue and green feathers lying in a spreading puddle of scarlet blood. Fenris paused and the creature slowly raised its head, black eyes staring at him helplessly. When he ventured closer, he saw the peacock’s wings were torn and bloody, nearly severed from its body. The opulent feathers of its outspread tail were scattered around it, alongside the feathers of many other, duller birds, each one bloodied and ripped. 

Fenris didn’t know why, but he needed to save the dying bird. He had to. He fell to his knees, reaching towards it, but the peacock cried out shrilly, trying to move away, terror shining brightly in those black eyes. At first he didn’t understand, but then he saw a strange flash of white on the floor and looked down, stumbling back when the reflection of a white wolf looked back at him. “ _What?_ ” he whispered, but the only sound that came out was a growl. 

The peacock let its head fall, giving up. Fenris stepped forward, red soaking silver paws. As the bird slipped away, its feathers began to change, from blue to black, from green to gold, and the blood just spread more and more, until the black floor was gone and Fenris could no longer see the wolf, just sticky slick scarlet covering everything. He could do nothing to stop it. The peacock fell still, and the wolf howled, a long, mournful note…

When Fenris woke up he thought at first he had a fever, hot all over and sweating through his clothes, with more heat blowing against the nape of his neck. But after the bleary confusion lingering from his dream passed, he realized that it was Dorian, breathing on his skin hotly and pressed to his back even more so, his hard cock snug against Fenris’s upper thigh. For several moments he lay there, eyes half-opened, feeling and breathing and trying to slow the frantic patter of his heart. When Dorian’s hips thrust shallowly against him, he sucked in a breath and very slowly moved back into the motion, waiting to see what Dorian would do.

But he just did it again with a muffled, appreciative sound against Fenris’s shoulder, and Fenris realized he was still asleep. Probably exhausted from earlier that evening, he thought with some satisfaction. 

Fenris paused. He could just roll away from Dorian and leave him to his intriguing dream, but…Dorian’s body was pliant and pleasant even pressed against him as it was, and he was awfully comfortable where he was already, not to mention his cock was quickly becoming interested. It would be a shame to move. So he just sighed and relaxed and let his head fall back against Dorian’s chest, startled when the mage stirred and awoke.

“Hmm?” he mumbled sleepily, and then seemed to grasp the situation, starting to pull away from Fenris. “Apologies,” he yawned, but Fenris grumbled and reached around, yanking him back to where he’d been. “Wha –”

“It’s fine,” Fenris muttered. “C’mon.” Dorian was still, then his arm snaked around Fenris’s waist, draping over his hip until his palm pressed firmly over Fenris’s cock, sweet pressure right where he needed it, fingers curling and breath feathering across his throat. Fenris’s breath hitched and when Dorian started to move his hand and his hips – careful but steady – Fenris closed his eyes and let out the breath he’d been holding. 

Dorian didn’t say anything, so he must’ve really been exhausted, but he kissed Fenris’s ear and neck and held him close when they both came with soft sounds thick with sleepiness. Dorian shifted and the bed dipped as he got up (probably to find a towel since he had an obsession with hygiene). Fenris just hummed and nuzzled his face into the pillows. They smelled like Dorian. 

The bed dipped again and sure enough a damp towel swiped across his thighs with a little halfhearted mutter about how he was disgusting or something. Fenris just yawned loudly in reply and snuggled back into the warm camber of Dorian’s embrace. His disturbing dream forgotten, sleep came to him quickly.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes, a lot goes down in this chapter. We're nearing the end, guys! The next update will be very soon, hang in there and thank you so much to those of you who have actually read this entire thing! I really never planned this fic to be as long as it's turning out to be, but oh well. hope you enjoy it! (...while you still can...)

It was only a matter of time before Dorian was expected to throw a party of his own and invite all the usual awful guests plus Adrianna and a few older friends, though he had to be very careful in order for his increasingly elaborate façade to be believed. He wished Felix could have been there, then again…perhaps it was better that Felix didn’t have to see him acting like the world’s worst tool. 

“Have you given any more thought to our offer about Danarius’s estate?” Quillian asked innocently, ignoring the covetous looks from a few of the others around them. “We still believe you could make great contributions to the continuation of his work.”

Dorian shrugged indifferently. “Truly, I find the whole place to be rather dreary and dungeonlike, but if you could find a sunny spot for me to work there, I’d consider it.”

Quillian laughed indulgently. Titus, lounging on a nearby settee with a slave, did not. “I’m sure that could be arranged. Although Danarius was ridiculously fond of drapery, I’m sure we could find you a room with a large open window or two.” He turned to Adrianna. “And what about you, my dear? You’d be a welcome fellow researcher there too, if you so desire.”

She smiled brittlely. “Ah, very tempting Cassius, but for the time being I’m very much preoccupied with reanimating Rose properly, along with some other creatures…strangely, nugs are proving quite difficult.”

“Fascinating,” Quillian said. “Do let me know when you succeed.”

“Of course.”

Quillian addressed Dorian again, though his eyes flicked to Fenris who stood demurely at his side as always. “If you do decide to take up the offer, it might be wise not to take your elf with you. Can’t have him breaking every priceless invention in the place, can we?”

Fenris cringed and Dorian put a hand on the back of his neck, possessive in appearance though his thumb rubbed small, calming circles against Fenris’s skin, hidden behind the elf’s hair. “No, we can’t have that,” he said. 

“I almost wish he’d break something else, though, just to see another lightning show!” Quillian began to regale the others with the blasted tale, and Dorian took the opportunity to edge out of the spotlight with Fenris, leaning against a nearby pillar instead and taking a disinterested sip of wine. It was awfully dry. He’d have to speak with Lanari about getting wine from a different vineyard later.

If not for Fenris’s subtle elbow jab, Dorian wouldn’t have noticed Titus coming over, slave girl in tow. From her attire he guessed she was supposed to be a serving girl, though he rather doubted that was her current purpose. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dorian asked as the magister stopped beside his pillar, sipping his own wine. Somehow, he managed to keep even the slightest hint of disdain out of his tone.

Titus’s mouth twitched. “We’ve never spoken before, Altus. A shame, since you seem a very useful man to have around.” Something about the way he said _useful_ made Dorian’s blood run cold. His dislike for Titus was increasing exponentially by the second, and he was certain Fenris could relate.

“Ah, well. It’s been said many times,” Dorian replied. “But you’re a busy man, are you not? I find it hard to believe you just wished to chat idly with me.”

Titus took a long sip of wine. Then he said, “Let us go somewhere more private.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “The upstairs parlor should suffice?”

“Yes. Good.”

Dorian led the way with Fenris, expecting Titus to follow, but the magister sniffed and said, “Leave your elf.”

Fenris tensed, but Dorian nudged him away, giving him a small, reassuring nod. Fenris was familiar with this house, and there were plenty of people who would step in if someone tried to harass him. Though he knew the real reason for Fenris’s hesitation was Dorian’s own safety – being alone with a magister as powerful as Titus was never really a good thing. Dorian did not know if his magic could match Titus’s, and did not wish to find out. But he did know that he didn’t want Fenris anywhere near such a fight. “Go on,” he murmured. Fenris lowered his head in acquiescence and stalked off into the throng of the party.

“Let us proceed,” Titus said when he was gone. He left his own slave girl behind and walked with Dorian up the nearest staircase, blue and gold robes flowing around his tall, thin figure. He reminded Dorian all too much of his family’s falcon symbol, with a sharp beak of a nose and dark, beady eyes that seemed to watch everything and everyone. 

When they reached the parlor, Dorian motioned for the magister to sit and took his own seat in the chair opposite, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers in expectation. “Well, Magister?”

But Titus just took another long draught and gazed coolly into space for a while, seemingly in no hurry to answer. Dorian bristled slightly at the blatant rebuff. In rank, he knew he was lower than Titus, but the man didn’t have to shove the fact in his face so rudely. Fenris had once mentioned that Titus had been a friend of Danarius’s, and Dorian wasn’t surprised. They had so much in common, namely that he hated them both immensely. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t hope Titus joined Danarius six feet under sometime soon.

Impudently, he cleared his throat, and Titus’s eyes flickered to him with surprise and amusement. Dorian didn’t back down. His father would have been livid. “My apologies, but I do have other engagements tonight with other people.”

Titus chuckled, though his gaze was cold. “You too are a busy man, evidently.”

“Mm.”

Finally, the magister set down his wine. “Do you consider yourself one of the Venatori? Cassius has taken you under his wing, however…you were never officially initiated into the circle.”

Dorian leaned back in his chair. “I do agree with the Venatori’s beliefs, yes. And I believe I am willing to work for their cause in any way I can. But I was not aware there was an official initiation…”

“Oh, yes,” Titus said. “It is a simple thing, really. Our foolish and far more extreme predecessors had no such thing, savages that they were…” Dorian knew he was referring to the Venatori who had served Corypheus, and could attest that both incarnations of the group were equally savage. But he had never heard of such an initiation. 

Dorian frowned. “I will admit to curiosity. What does this initiation entail?”

“A certain degree of trust,” Titus said with an unnerving smile that Dorian did not trust one bit. “You understand we are, unfortunately, not officially supported by the Archon or the Imperium, and thus our activities must be kept…clandestine. We don’t spill our secrets to just anyone, Altus.”

Though alarm bells were going off in his head very loudly, Dorian nodded. “I understand, Magister.” He paused. “Do you have the means to perform the initiation now?”

“I do.”

Dorian was probably going to regret this. But he had made a promise. He had promised he would become one of the Venatori, whatever it took. “Then I would be honored to join your ranks.”

“Do you swear to remain loyal to us and only us?” Titus tilted his head. “Our punishment for traitors is…severe.”

“Of course.” He didn’t break the magister’s gaze. “I swear.”

“Hold out your arm.”

“…what?”

Titus rolled his head, magic igniting in his palms, and before Dorian could raise a barrier against him, light flashed from the magister’s palm to his left wrist, sending searing pain across his skin and making him yelp. To his horror, the smooth bronze skin was marred by a growing, twisting scar, scarlet trickling from the raw edges as Titus’s hand traced out the shape of it in the air. Dorian felt dizzy at the sight of his blood, and he was glad he was sitting down – it was easier to remind himself he was not standing in a dark hallway with his father holding a knife. But it was close. It was too close.

Titus’s hand dropped and Dorian blinked at the mark he’d left behind – a serpentine dragon crossed by a snake, the symbol of the Venatori. He’d seen it many times before – on ragged banners, on corpses’ armor, on practically everything in Redcliffe’s twisted reality – but he’d never thought to see it burned into the flesh of his own wrist. Slowly, he raised his eyes to Titus, fighting to conceal the shock and resentment inside of him. Was this how Fenris felt about his lyrium? 

No. Fenris had to feel a thousand times worse. This was just one scar, one necessary scar for a just cause. Fenris had hundreds of scars, and there had been no justice in Danarius’s cause. So Dorian raised his head, ignoring the steady trickle of blood from the cooling brand, and asked, “Is it done?”

Titus’s smile was more genuine this time, but Dorian still didn’t like it. “It is done. You’re one of us now.”

Dorian smiled back although his magic was stirring angrily. _I’ll die before I become one of you._

“And since you are now bound to us, I must tell you something.” Titus grew serious, eyes darting around the room though there was obviously nobody but them. “We have discovered a power greater than anything seen since the Imperium’s Golden Age. Power that could restore the former glory of our nation once and for all – it would make us the most powerful people in Thedas. We could change the world, Altus, and we plan to do so.”

Although Dorian already knew, he asked, “How?”

“There will be a ritual in a week’s time, hidden under the guise of a gala at my estate. It is necessary that every one of us attend.” Titus faltered. “The ritual will be…difficult.”

“Let me guess,” Dorian drawled, “it’ll also be bloody?”

Titus narrowed his eyes. “Yes. And there may be casualties. However…you are a very gifted mage, Altus. _Very_ powerful. So I wouldn’t worry.”

“Right,” Dorian said unsurely. “How comforting.”

Titus rose, giving him one last cold, searching gaze. “I look forward to seeing you then.”

“As do I.”

Titus smiled again, like he was telling a joke, and before Dorian could question that he strode out of the room. Dorian heard the creak of the stairs as he descended, but did not move to follow him. He just sat there, staring at his wrist. The blood had mostly stopped, and with a weary sigh he cast a minor healing spell over it. As expected, the scar refused to disappear. It really was permanent, then. He sighed again. He had considered getting a tattoo at some point, although this was not really what he’d meant.

At least it was just on his wrist, instead of his chest or neck or _face_ …he shuddered.

The stairs creaked again, and Dorian raised his head warily, looking at the landing through the partly opened door. He was preparing himself to break up a hopeful couple (oh, the hypocrisy), but relaxed when a single, silent elf came into view instead, ghostlike in the twilight shadows when he turned and saw Dorian.

Fenris went to him quickly, nose wrinkling as soon as he stepped inside the room. The lyrium glowed in accusation. Ah. Right. He could probably sense Titus’s residual magic – it must have been a strong spell to make something so permanent. “What did he do?” Fenris asked, stepping closer.

Dorian huffed. “Good news? I’m now officially one of the Venatori. Bad news?” He held out his wrist. 

Fenris came even closer, peering at it, and when he saw and understood his brows furrowed and his mouth twisted. “Titus…branded you?”

“I prefer to think of it in less vulgar terms, but technically, yes,” Dorian muttered, snatching his wrist back. “It was part of the initiation.”

“And you _agreed_ to it?”

Dorian gave him a reproachful look. “It wasn’t as if I had much of a choice. I agreed to go through with this, so I did. I am, still. Titus told me when they’re going to use the Magrellan – it’ll be a ritual a week from now, during one of his charming galas. Except this time, the blood magic will be going on behind closed doors.”

“And you’ll be a part of it,” Fenris said flatly.

Dorian swallowed. “I sincerely hope not. But I’ll do what I must.”

Fenris sat down next to him. “We’ll need to tell the Red Crown about this as soon as possible.”

“I know.”

A pause. Then,

“I used to think you were very selfish.”

Dorian covered up his confusion with a little self-deprecating laugh. “Have you met me? Selfish is my middle name.”

“Your middle name is Antoni,” Fenris corrected.

Dorian coughed, turning a little pink. “Uh…how did you –”

Fenris shrugged. “Anyway. You’re not selfish. You were, but…not anymore.”

Dorian stared at him. “As much as I appreciate the compliment –”

“Selfish people do not make sacrifices for others,” Fenris said quietly. He touched Dorian’s wrist, carefully avoiding the scar. “You are not a selfish person.”

Dorian didn’t know what to say to that. Distantly, he could hear strains of a harp from downstairs, the strings’ haunting melody filling the silence between them. 

“How did you know my middle name?” 

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Really. Out of all that, that’s all you got from it?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow.

“Avexus sometimes tells Krem and I stories after training, if you must know,” Fenris said with exasperation. “One of which included how you hated your middle name.”

“Why did you use past tense? I assure you I never stopped hating it.” 

“It’s not that bad. Better than Fenris.”

Fair enough. Dorian bit his lip. “What…what was your name before? Your real name.”

He scoffed. “ _Real_ name? That person, whoever he was, is all but gone now. Fenris is my real name.” But he relented and added, “I was called Leto.”

“Leto,” Dorian murmured, trying it out. Fenris gave him an odd look. “It doesn’t really fit you,” he said.

Fenris smiled grimly. “No,” he agreed. “Leto is long dead.”

“You really think so?”

Fenris didn’t answer. Instead he stood and said, “The party is almost over. I doubt the host will be missed.”

“Fenris…?”

“I want to suck you off,” he continued. “The wine was disgusting, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how much better you taste.”

Dorian’s eyes widened. This was new. “Oh,” he said dumbly. “The wine was rather terrible, so I’m not sure that’s much of an accomplish – mmph!”

He could really get used to Fenris kissing him to make him shut up.

“My offer stands for five more seconds,” Fenris said when he pulled away. “One, two –”

“Come on,” Dorian chuckled, leading him to the door, “my bed is a lot more comfortable than this floor, speaking from experience.”

Fenris’s eyes glinted eagerly, voice dropping to a low purr. “Then take me to bed, Dorian.”

*

Sure enough, the party had ended with no one (except perhaps Krem) noticing their disappearance. In the hazy afterglow, they listened to the music fading, the carriages clattering away, the laughter and clink of glasses dissipating until they were no more. In the silence that followed, the two of them lay curled together, two sides of the same coin, black and white, green and gray, dark skin made darker by too much sun. It was hard for Fenris to move away.

The world had finally crossed the divide between night and day, and through the sliver of Dorian’s bedroom curtains the sky was an inky canopy freckled with stars, the lights of Minrathous mirroring them in a yellowed echo. Fenris sighed. He wasn’t tired, even as the shadows grew longer and darker in Dorian’s room, turning its fine colors into muted shades of gray. 

Fenris looked at Dorian. Dorian arched an eyebrow lazily, stretching against the silk sheets. 

"Do you actually like being on the bottom?" he asked.

Dorian blinked, and then chuckled. "No, obviously I don't," he said. "The multiple orgasms? Completely faked."

Fenris rolled his eyes.

"Of course I do. What a question!" Dorian exclaimed. "Why do you ask?"

Fenris shrugged, sitting up and folding his arms. "Do you like being on the top?"

Dorian didn't laugh that time. "Well...yes, I do. Quite a lot. But -"

"Have you done that often?" Fenris pressed.

There was a long pause.

"Yes," Dorian finally said. "But-"

"Why haven't you done that with me?"

Dorian swallowed. "Ah...Fenris, no offense, but you're not exactly the most submissive partner -"

Fenris's eyes narrowed. "Is that what you want? For me to be _submissive_?"

Dorian made a squawking sound. "What?! No, you're twisting my words! Listen, you're the one who brought this up, and I'm not sure why you did but can we please just -"

Fenris tilted his head. "Why haven't you done that with me?" he repeated.

Dorian frowned. "You never seemed, ah...particularly receptive to...that."

Fenris frowned right back. "I asked you to fuck me."

Dorian squawked again. "Right after you'd been attacked by a fear demon that nearly drove you mad! You were barely coherent! It was hardly consensual-"

"But you still let me fuck you."

Dorian huffed. "Yes, well, what else was I supposed to do?"

"You could have used me," Fenris whispered. "But instead you let me use you. Not just that time. After the lightning, too."

"Fenris-"

"Why didn't you defend yourself?" he asked, voice growing slightly frantic, almost angry. "You're a mage, you're an _Altus_ , you're supposed to...to hurt people, to crave power, but..."

"Sorry to disappoint?" Dorian scowled. "Not all mages -"

"Shut up," Fenris snapped, immediately flinching and looking away. "I...apologize." He took a deep breath. "I know not every mage is like that. I know you are not like that. If you were... _this_ would not have continued between us. I am done with letting corrupt mages do as they wish with me, and know that if you ever decide to follow their example, I will make certain you have no hands left to lay on me or anyone else."

Dorian winced. "Noted. I would never..." He bit his lip. "Years ago, when both of us were still bound to Tevinter, my father took me with him to one of Danarius's galas. You...you were there."

Fenris closed his eyes. Dorian had seen him as...as... "I don't remember you," he said, although to be fair he'd tried to block out as much of that life as he possibly could. Some parts, however, could not be forgotten.

"It was like you weren't even there," Dorian murmured. "That's what I remember most. Many of the slaves had a sort of vacant look about them, I suppose, but your eyes were just...empty."

"Why are you telling me this?" Fenris whispered, staring at him. 

Dorian cupped his jaw, thumb tracing along his cheekbone. "They're not empty anymore," he replied quietly. "And I'm sorry that they ever were. Fenris, I'm so sorry. I should have...I should have done something earlier. Should've changed things..."

Fenris sucked in a breath, his chest feeling strangely light. "There’s still time. We're going to change things now," he said, and in that moment, he actually believed it.

"Yes," Dorian agreed. "No more empty eyes."

And Fenris let that stupid mage kiss him and push him back against the pillows, arching up against him greedily when he felt the hot press of Dorian's bare hips, their cocks sliding together anew. Dorian groaned when Fenris took his hand and sucked his fingers in between his lips, curling his tongue around the digits and tasting parchment and perfume. It was familiar, comforting. "Fuck me," he said. The words fell from his lips far too easily. He should have felt trapped, pinned as he was, legs splayed wantonly underneath Dorian's bulk, head tipped back and eyes half-lidded. But instead...it felt right. And when Dorian blinked in confusion and apprehension, Fenris just rolled his eyes and his hips with them, nodding towards the oil on the bedside table. "Don't make me ask again," he said, smirking.

Dorian, slowly, reached out and took the bottle, starting to uncap it before pausing and then setting it down on the sheets next to them. Fenris furrowed his brow, gaze sharpening and body tensing, suddenly a bit anxious. "Use the oil," he growled, heart pounding. "You need to -"

Dorian smiled at him reassuringly and a bit mischievously, sliding his hands up Fenris's thighs and nudging them apart. "I will," he promised. "But I want to do something else first. Do you trust me?" He paused, smile falling a little. "Because if you don't, we shouldn't be doing this in the first place-"

"I trust you," Fenris gritted out, letting his legs fall open again and flushing when Dorian wrapped a hand around his cock, his other hand stroking just behind his balls in an annoyingly incredible way. "But what are you - ah!"

"Up, up," Dorian laughed, grabbing Fenris's ankles and hooking them over his shoulders, nuzzling at his cock and licking up the side. Fenris moaned and tried to drag him closer with his legs, jerking in surprise when Dorian's tongue left his cock and went down further, licking right between his thighs. Fenris writhed. Warm and wet and oh, kaffas, pushing in, no pain, just strange twisting pleasure and the tickle of Dorian's mustache. Nobody had ever...Fenris was so caught up in the new sensation that he almost didn't notice Dorian press an oiled finger against him, slipping inside with no resistance, making him gasp.

Dorian pulled back, licking his lips and watching Fenris carefully, reaching out and taking one of his hands in his own, squeezing softly. "Good?" he asked, and Fenris nodded, squeezing the mage's hand back tightly. Dorian hummed, pleased, and his finger curled. Fenris's legs slid down his back, heels digging into strong muscle.

"Another," he hissed, cursing when Dorian complied, though it still wasn't enough. Fenris told him so, in clipped, stuttering sentences, biting down on his knuckles when Dorian crooked three fingers hard against the soft spot inside of him, sending unfamiliar trickles of ecstasy up his spine. His cock filled out completely in a rush of heat, Dorian's own a twin against his hip. Fenris blinked furiously, eyes watering, and managed to yank Dorian down, kissing him desperately while squirming against his clever fingers. The mage swallowed his frustrated noises, his lips strangely sweet and pliant in comparison to Fenris's fierceness.

Dorian's fingers kept moving, stretching and curling, teasing and skilled, and Fenris had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from begging. "Hurry up," he snapped. "I'm fine, I'm ready."

Dorian bit his lip. "Are you sure? I don't want to hurt -"

Fenris glared. "You're not going to break me, Dorian." The mage flinched slightly and Fenris exhaled shakily, regretting his choice of words. "Yes. I'm sure."

Dorian still hesitated. "I...I could use magic, and you wouldn't feel any pain -"

"No," Fenris said quickly. "No magic. Whatever pain you cause, I want to feel it."

Dorian inclined his head. "As you wish. Just...please tell me if you ever want me to stop, and I swear I will."

Fenris ignored the lump in his throat and nodded resolutely. "If you stopped now, I'd probably kill you." The lyrium lines glowed softly, but there was no real threat in his tone.

Dorian chuckled and poured more oil onto his fingers. "Patience," he murmured, wrapping a slick hand around himself. Fenris watched with wide eyes, mesmerized by the slide of dark skin and the expression on Dorian's face. He made a soft, wanting sound, and Dorian replied in kind, shuffling forward and lining up, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Fenris's, both of them moaning when skin met skin.

"Yes," Fenris choked out, and Dorian kissed him, pushing in with a firm stroke and suddenly Fenris was _full_ , hands clutching at the sheets and Dorian's shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to break skin, cock throbbing between their bodies. Dorian was trying to ask him something, but Fenris couldn't focus on anything except the burn becoming bliss, the heat of their bodies, the smell of oil and sweat and spices when he buried his face against Dorian's neck. "Yes," he just kept saying, mouthing at Dorian's collarbones and moaning when they started to rock together. Dorian dragged Fenris up until he was straddling the mage's lap, and that made Fenris moan louder, shoving his hips down.

"I'm assuming it doesn't hurt," Dorian said breathily, an arm wrapped around his waist securely, holding Fenris as close as possible, and then some.

"Kaffas, no," Fenris hissed. "Move, you idiot mage -"

"It's _Dorian_ ," he laughed, eyes crinkling up at the corners as his hips started a slow, filthy grind. "I think we're past the name calling, pretty elf."

Fenris glowered (or tried to, it was a bit difficult when Dorian was looking at him like that). "Pretty?!" he snapped. "I am not -"

"Handsome," Dorian corrected, with a steady thrust for each additional word. "Dashing. Gorgeous. Exquisite. Ravishing...hm, I can list more synonyms if you'd like?" His eyes crinkled up at the corners. He was laughing.

"I'm going to kill you," Fenris groaned, shoving at Dorian's chest and sending them both toppling down, Fenris throwing his head back and riding Dorian's cock hard and fast, stroking his own roughly in rhythm, heat pooling in his belly. Dorian was moving with him, staring up at him with eyes that seemed more black than gray, holding his hips carefully, more tenderly than Fenris deserved. It was too much, too much, no, just enough -

"Beautiful," Dorian whispered, palms warm on his skin. "Fenris." 

He wasn’t laughing anymore.

"Dorian," he gasped, clenching tight around him and pulling at his shoulders, the mage covering his body again, holding Fenris's head in the cradle of his palms like he was something precious, finally letting go and really fucking him, enough to make him writhe and shout that stupid mage's name in broken, rough syllables. The sheets bunched up uncomfortably and his thighs ached and the air was a miasma of sex and sweat but Fenris just groaned his approval into Dorian’s neck and bit down on the tendon there, sucking flesh into his mouth and marking it with an angry violet bruise. _Mine, mine, mine –_. Dorian's body coiled taut above him, and for a moment Fenris felt that unmistakable buildup of magic again, igniting the lyrium and sending a brief flash of panic through him before the raw power resolved into something softer. Warm tendrils of it wrapped around them both, and though Fenris could not see them, he knew that if he could they would be golden.

Dorian kissed him deeply after he came, hand sliding down Fenris's stomach until their hands tangled on his cock. Fenris arched up into the touch, a red flush spreading down his body, the tips of his ears hot when Dorian kept moving against him, inside of him, pumping his cock and sliding his thumb over the head. He trailed kisses from his neck to his mouth and back again, whispering across his skin in Tevene, silly phrases of admiration and adoration that had never before been directed at Fenris. If he hadn't been clinging to the edge of climax, he would have been embarrassed. As it was he just tried to whisper them back, words catching in his throat and coming out rougher than he meant.

"Amatus," Dorian crooned, twisting his hand and smiling.

He wanted to say it back, it scared him just how much he wanted to, but the word caught in his throat, so he just whispered, "Dorian," one last time. Then the world exploded into vivid, blinding color, making him cry out, images and sounds whirling past him...no, inside of his head, threatening to solidify at any moment. Distantly, he was aware of Dorian's voice - concerned, frightened, confused -

"No!" he screamed, trying to block them out, to stop the flood of memory. He didn't want to remember, not again, not now, not with _Dorian_ – 

"Leto, please."

He was younger, darker hair and rougher skin free of lyrium, with a brightness in his eyes and a quirk to his lips that had been lost long ago. The girl standing before him had sadder eyes, redder hair, lighter skin, but she was undoubtedly his sister.

"Varania, you know I have to. It's the only way to free you and mother from....them." Leto's lip curled. Fenris wanted to cry. He'd had no idea of the magisters' cruelty back then. Not yet.

Varania frowned. "I know you hate mages, Leto, but -"

"No," he murmured, touching her cheek. "I do not hate mages. You're a mage, and you are my sister, and your magic is a gift. Your magic is what will save you and mother from the slums when you're free. I _will_ free you."

Varania sniffled, holding his hand tightly against her face, leaning into it. "But what about you?"

Leto chuckled darkly, taking his hand away and flexing his fingers. "I won't die."

"There are worse things than dying, brother," she whispered.

The images melted away, replaced by a large arena that stunk of sweat and blood, surrounded by terraced seats full of grinning mages. Fenris didn't have to look to know who sat in the place of honor.

Leto stood in the middle of the arena, along with another elf, her teeth bared and skin mottled with bruises and cuts. They were armed only with their own bodies, and Fenris stared in horrified fascination as he leapt at the woman, both of them grappling violently as the spectators cheered. The memories started to blur as the woman fell, her neck at a strange angle. More elven slaves, human slaves, males, females, adults, teenagers, even some children - Leto felled them all, his vision a haze of red. _Stop,_ Fenris wanted to say. _You don't want this. You don't know what he's going to do to you –_

The last competitor stepped forward, a human male larger and stronger than all the others. Leto's throat bobbed as he swallowed and stepped back instinctively. The man grinned grimly and cracked his knuckles. The mages fell silent, watching their two favorites intensely. Fenris tried once more to stem the flow of memory, but it was useless.

Leto didn't stand a chance. He snarled and braced himself, but the man's quick punch still sent him sprawling. The crowd booed and he got to his feet, darting and dodging and managing to land a few hits on the man's back, with a bruised rib for his trouble. He was exhausted, and so was the other man, but both of them fought with furious fervor, bruised knuckles and bleeding lips and black eyes, until Leto was knocked back into the dust and dirt, gasping raggedly as the man kicked his injured rib without mercy.

The pain came back to Fenris in a wave, and with it, the determination, the stubbornness that stopped him from staying there on the ground and accepting his fate.

Maybe, if he'd done that, things would have been different.

Then again, maybe he'd be dead.

Leto spat blood and rolled away from the next kick, stumbling back onto his feet to face the man again. The crowd murmured in surprise, the magisters whispering amongst each other speculatively. The elf squared his shoulders and lashed out, the other man snorting and nearly knocking him over again. But Leto stood strong, teeth gritted and jaw set. The man was getting angry.

The crowd was getting excited.

"Give up, elf," the man muttered. "All I got to do is knock you out. Don't need to kill you."

"You can try," Leto taunted. He sounded fearless, but Fenris knew better. He was terrified.

The man growled and his next punch hit him square between the eyes. Leto fell with a loud thump, unmoving, and the crowd mumbled in uncertainty. The man started to smile crookedly, rolling his shoulders and turning towards the crowd and away from the fallen elf. He started to raise his arms in victory, and the crowd's volume started to grow.

Then Leto stirred. Before any of the magisters could cry out a warning, he leapt from the ground and onto the man's shoulders, wrapping his arms and legs around his meaty neck as tightly as he could. The crowd screamed gleefully at the unexpected turn of events. The man roared in frustration, trying to shake him off unsuccessfully.

Fenris could do nothing but watch as Leto strangled him, veins in his arms and hands popping and face twisted with concentration. The man fell to his knees, face purpling and hands tearing uselessly at the elf, raking red lines across his thighs, blood beading up. He was a strong man, but not invincible, and when he fell, he did not get up again.

Leto did.

Danarius stepped forward from his private box, shrouded in shadow from the sun, making him nothing more than a dark silhouette. His voice, magnified by magic, filled the arena.

"What is your name, victor?"

"Leto, master."

Fenris had already seen part of the next memory, many years ago in Kirkwall.

He was in a cold room, strapped to a colder table, three mages looking down on him. Danarius, Hadriana, and Titus. Danarius was holding a vial of glittering silver-white lyrium and a long, thin needle which Leto eyed nervously.

"Do you have any questions, Leto?" Danarius asked him.

"Will it hurt?" he asked.

Danarius chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound. "Oh, I expect you will feel some...discomfort."

Fenris's fists clenched.

And then the needle was slipping under his skin, fire and ice, impossible agony pulsing through his brand new lyrium veins.

Just before he started screaming, Danarius said, "Leto is a lovely name, but you won't be needing it any more. Go on, little wolf, howl for me. You're going to be so beautiful..."

*

Fenris was shaking and sobbing, stumbling away from the bed and ripping himself away from Dorian's arms, bracing himself against the dresser. Dorian, heart pounding, stepped closer, wary of the lyrium flickering on the elf's skin uncontrollably, its energy pouring out from him in distressing waves.

"Are you...Fenris, what -"

"Get away," he snapped, huddling against the wall and shaking his head. "Don't-"

"Will you at least tell me what I did?!" Dorian pleaded, wringing his hands but reluctantly staying at a distance.

Fenris was quiet for a moment, then he whispered, "I...remembered. Again." Then he snatched up his clothes and fled the room.

Dorian stood there in stunned silence for a few moments in his absence. He'd...remembered? Like he had with Hawke? What did that mean, exactly? And what had he remembered that made him so upset?

Frowning and putting on a robe, he left his room and crossed the hall, pausing before Fenris's door. He'd never really gone in there before. But he could hear the elf's muffled sobs and curses, so he made up his mind and turned the knob, slipping inside and approaching Fenris, who was sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. 

His room was darker, smaller, plainer, but it fit Fenris, somehow. Dorian felt like an intruder there, amidst the shadows and moonlight, but he ached to make those awful sounds stop coming from Fenris's mouth, to make the furious tears stop falling from his eyes. "I'm sorry," he offered, biting his lip when Fenris looked up accusingly, strings of silver hair hanging haphazardly in his face. "I never intended to hurt you."

" _You_ didn't," Fenris said, averting his eyes, shoulders slumping. "This is my fault."

"What?" Dorian blinked. "Wait, no, listen -"

"I think this has gone on long enough," Fenris said tonelessly, still looking away. "And as you said...all good things must come to an end. The ritual is in a week, and if everything goes according to plan, we will be done here. I will be, anyway."

Dorian's brow furrowed. He didn't like where this was going. "Well, yes, but...can't we have fun in the meantime?"

Fenris scoffed, and his derision hurt more than it should have. "Fun? No, Dorian. I didn't come back to Tevinter to have fun. This...this _thing_ is over."

"Just like that?" Dorian folded his arms, though his voice was petulant as a child's even to his own ears.

"Yes."

"Fine, then," Dorian replied, although it wasn't, and he knew he'd been foolish to hope for anything more than he'd ever gotten before. What he and Fenris had, though, whatever it was...it felt different than the others. Dorian wasn't sure how he felt about that. Maybe it was best to end this after all, before it got...out of hand.

After all, Fenris had _remembered_. And that, apparently, didn't happen when he was with just anyone.

Fenris kept frowning, ears drooping as he huddled amongst the sheets, looking anywhere but Dorian. "Please go," he said. "Now."

Dorian frowned right back and turned on his heel, stalking back towards the door. "Fine."

As he left, he almost didn't hear Fenris's whispered apology. Whether it was to Dorian or to himself, he did not know. He forced himself to keep walking, and when the door shut behind him with a hollow thud, it sounded like a nail in a coffin.

"No strings," he gritted out, shaking his head. "Right."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry in advance? (I am an update queen, you're welcome. I will finish this story soon!)
> 
> enjoy and thank you for 100+ kudos. you're all the best!

“Do you, uh…” Krem coughed and forced out, “want to talk about it?”

Dorian glanced up from the letter he was writing and shot him a withering look. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Krem wasn’t buying it. But he nodded to the aforementioned letter and said, “You telling Leliana about what’s been going on?”

Dorian paused, and refilled his quill methodically. “The Inquisitor, actually. She was very put-out that we’d been informing Leliana about everything but not her. Lavellan always did like to be in control.” He signed the letter with a flourish at the bottom, setting the quill aside when he was done. “Krem,” he said in a quiet, strange tone, “will you be returning to Skyhold when all this is done?”

Krem blinked, then shrugged, settling back on the sofa thoughtfully. “Dunno. But judging from Bull’s letters, he’s getting restless. Not enough things around to kill, probably. And I go where the Chargers go, when I’m not doing stupid shit like this.” He frowned at Dorian, who had a distant look in his eyes. “What about you?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian said softly. “If everything works out…I might stay here. Is that wrong of me? For all its faults, Tevinter is my home.”

“If you stayed…” Krem trailed off. 

“Yes, I know,” Dorian muttered. “I’d have to take my father’s seat in the Magisterium someday. And _produce an heir_.” He hesitated. “There’s more than one way to do that, though. I could take on an apprentice, or adopt, or…or…”

Krem studied him carefully. Dorian was always self-assured, confident and cocky in everything he said and did, but it was as if that protective layer had fallen away…or maybe been ripped away by something, or someone. He’d had his doubts about Altus Pavus in the beginning, and those doubts had continued well into this blighted mission of theirs. Dorian was charismatic and powerful, and Krem had never found it easy to trust men like that. But Dorian was also just a little broken, like they all were. And it was his brokenness that Krem decided to trust, in the end. 

“I just don’t want to run away anymore, Krem,” Dorian whispered. “You and Fenris…you ran because you had to. I ran because I was a coward. I always have been.”

“You ran because your father tried to kill you,” Krem hissed harshly, surprised at his own vehemence. “Anyone would’ve run from that.”

Dorian scoffed. “No. It wouldn’t have killed me. Maybe, it would’ve actually worked. Maybe he was right to try to fix me –”

“Fix what?” Krem snapped. “If it had ‘worked,’ _you_ would be dead. The real Dorian would be gone. So, yeah, maybe you’ve got some issues. So do I. So does Fenris, shit, I think he wins the gold medal for issues. But that doesn’t mean blood magic is gonna fix ‘em. Just because you got a Venatori brand doesn’t mean you have to start thinking the way they do.” He took a deep breath. He didn’t remember ever saying so much at once to Dorian, but he was glad he had. 

Dorian looked a little misty-eyed. He sniffed. “You’re right, Krem,” he said. “You know…you’re a valuable ally, but…I also consider you my friend. And believe it or not, I have precious few friends. I’m glad you’re here.”

Krem smiled, the admission making his face feel a little warm. “I’ve got your back,” he promised. 

“I hear the view’s nice,” Dorian quipped, an echo of his old self that made Krem roll his eyes.

It also gave him the courage to ask, “What about Fenris?”

“What about him?” Dorian replied guardedly. 

“Are you two still…friends?”

Dorian sat there stiffly, jaw set. “I doubt we ever were,” he said. “The mage from Tevinter and the vengeful ex-slave, _friends_? It was never going to work.” He grimaced. “He won’t even look at me now.”

Krem waited. Dorian clearly was not done, frustration filling his expression and lining every edge of his tense body. 

“He told me he was leaving after we finish our job here. I wish I’d asked him where he was going.”

“He’s right upstairs,” Krem pointed out. “You can still ask him.”

“No,” Dorian said. “I can’t. I shouldn’t. If I knew where he was going, I would try to find him. And that would be an extraordinarily bad idea.”

Krem frowned. “If you really think so.”

“I do,” Dorian retorted, but Krem didn’t believe the conviction in his words. His skepticism must’ve shown in his face, because Dorian quickly changed the subject. “How is Sparrow?”

“Oh, uh…she’s good. As good as she can be, all things considered.”

“Ah, true…she’s a tough one, though. And having the strong and chivalrous Cremisius at her side probably can’t hurt.” Dorian grinned.

“Thanks,” Krem chuckled. “But…speaking of Sparrow, she and I were talking and…if we kill Quillian, all his slaves will be put back on the market. She was thinking, maybe, you could buy her and then…well, I know there’s a lot of paperwork, but –”

“Of course, Krem,” Dorian assured him. “I’ll do whatever I can to free her. Hopefully, Avis’s plan for the next Archon will actually work and she won’t be the only one freed.” Then he paused. “You know…speaking of all that paperwork…Fenris was never legally made a liberatus, was he?”

Krem shook his head. Oh, this was going to be…interesting. “After Sparrow pitched the idea for him to pretend he was your slave, Leliana’s people infiltrated the Imperium court offices and changed his papers. ‘Legally,’ he’s actually owned by Dorian Pavus.” Dorian blanched and Krem shrugged. “The Red Crown wanted it to be done, to make sure the ruse worked, ‘cause if it didn’t...”

“But…” Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell Fenris?”

Krem raised an eyebrow. “This is your reaction and you’re asking me why? It worked, Dorian. When this is over they can probably change the papers again.”

“Or I could,” Dorian said.

“What?”

“If I ‘legally’ own him, then I could make him a liberatus. No. Not just him – all the slaves my father so kindly gave me.” Dorian looked determined, and just like that Krem trusted him a little bit more. “Don’t tell Fenris, though,” he added. “He…he doesn’t have to know about it. I don’t think he’d be very pleased that I helped him.”

Krem disagreed, but he shrugged. “Whatever you think is best. You’d actually do that, though?”

“Yes,” Dorian said. Then he paused. “We keep talking about doing things when all this is over, but…there might not be anything after this, Krem. I hate to say it, but this might just be the end of the line.”

“You’re right,” Krem said. “We got ourselves into a real mess here. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to think we at least have a fighting chance. We made it this far, yeah?” He took a deep breath. “And dying for this would be just fine with me.”

“Good man,” Dorian said. He seemed to make up his mind about something, and stood, folding the letter and slipping it into its envelope, stamping it shut with a wax seal and tucking it into his pocket. “You know what? Let’s do this, Krem. I’m going to send this letter and then we’re going to the court offices. Maybe we’re going to die in a few days, but if we do, Fenris is dying a free man. Any objections?”

“I’m with you,” Krem said.

And he meant it. He really, really meant it.

*

Fenris saw Krem and Dorian walking down the main drive from his window, furrowing his brow at their easy banter and the arm Dorian had slung around Krem’s shoulders. If that mage was trying to make him jealous again, it wasn’t working. He sneered and turned away. The sooner this was over, the better. This place was clouding his mind, and he needed to get away from it as soon as possible. Maybe he could find work with Isabela. He’d bet she would know some slavers who needed killing, too. That would certainly clear his head. 

And he and Isabela had been…close in the past. He was sure she wouldn’t object to a repeat of that. Ha, the look on Dorian’s face if he saw them and put two and two together…but the thought didn’t make Fenris feel as smug as it should have. It just made him feel…hollow. And then angry. He shouldn’t be so affected by this. Venhedis, Dorian was probably making amends with Rilienus by now. 

Repressed memories flickered behind his eyelids and he tiredly pushed them away again.

*

“Shem ears are so ugly,” Mavis declared, poking her freshly-illusioned ear with distaste. She and Avis had managed to arrive at the Pavus estate in one piece, and after several strenuous spells that left Dorian pale and dizzy, the two elves looked like perfectly normal humans.

Dorian raised an eyebrow and downed his second cup of elfroot tea, grateful when he felt his mana finally returning in full. “Can’t argue with you there, however, I’d have to say my own ears are paragons among ‘shems.’”

Mavis squinted at them. “They’re alright,” she said uncertainly.

Avis seemed thoroughly engrossed with the stubble on his jaw. “This is disgusting,” he said in an amazed tone of voice. Well, of course he’d be amazed. Elves had a strangely miniscule amount of hair on their bodies. Not that Dorian would know that from experience or anything. He studiously avoided looking at Fenris, who was sitting as far away as possible, hiding behind his sword. Dorian was fairly certain swords did not need to be sharpened for as long as Fenris had been at it.

“You remember your identities, if anyone asks?” Dorian said. They’d been over this a thousand times, but one little mistake tonight could cost them all dearly.

Mavis gave a little curtsy. “We are both Laetans from the southern outskirts of Minrathous, my name is Delphine.”

“And mine is Aulus.” Avis folded his arms. “You’re certain this will work?”

“No,” Dorian said truthfully. Krem snorted from across the room, where he was fastening on the last of his armor. “I mean, my illusion spell will definitely work. It’s perfect. But the plan as a whole? Best not to think about it too much. Just, ah…act like you belong?”

“You said Adrianna will be there? And that she knows about everything?” Avis asked eagerly.

Dorian bit his lip. “Not everything. She doesn’t know who you and your sister truly are yet, and I suggest you save the big reveal for after the party.”

“Oh,” Avis sighed. “Alright.”

Mavis rocked on her heels. “Ghilani and Sparrow will both be there too, of course. Ghilani’s going to have to sneak out of the kitchens, but that shouldn’t be hard given the crowd. It’s one of Titus’s biggest galas yet!”

“Somehow, that’s not very comforting,” Dorian muttered.

Krem came up beside him and shoved his shoulder. “What, you nervous, _Altus_?”

Dorian scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, _Soporatus_.” He glanced over at Fenris, who was still supposedly focused on his sword. “If you’re quite done with that, Fenris, we ought to be going now. It wouldn’t do to be late.”

Fenris scowled, but put his whetstone away and heaved the sword onto its place on his back, standing and stretching with a clink of armor and a creak of leather. Tonight, he was dressed not to impress but to kill. They all were. Mavis’s staff was displayed proudly on her back, and earlier Dorian had seen Avis tucking several daggers and various vials of poison into his belt, concealed under dark robes. He may not have been a mage, but Dorian had no doubt he could hold his own – Krem certainly could with just his sword and shield, impressive weapons though they were. 

As the five of them went to the waiting carriage outside and took their seats, Dorian felt oddly detached from his own body – distant and thoughtful and _anxious_. He’d always considered himself to have quite a good sense of intuition, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that filled him as they neared their destination. The others seemed oblivious to it, with the twins’ lighthearted jokes, Krem’s calm demeanor, and Fenris’s obvious impatience to kill some mages. 

Still…Dorian touched the pendant around his neck as if it would reassure him somehow. But although it was his birthright, beautiful and expensive and passed down through generations…it wasn’t magic, and it didn’t ease his nerves one bit. He hardly ever wore the thing in public, but he’d brought it along tonight for…for luck. It was foolish, but the thought that it could actually have such powers comforted him somewhat.

It was only when they stepped into the main ballroom that Dorian managed to focus again, forcing himself to smile and greet Quillian, who was waiting for him nonchalantly. None of the other usual Venatori were with him – Dorian wasn’t surprised, since a large group would attract attention, but it didn’t make him feel any better. 

Mavis and Avis quickly separated from Dorian, Fenris, and Krem, mingling with the crowd but keeping a watchful eye as planned. Quillian inclined his head. “Dorian. It’s a pleasure.” He gave Krem and Fenris a curt nod. “Come, Dorian – the night is young.” He paused. “You needn’t bring your, ah…bodyguards.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “I would prefer they stay at my side.”

“Then allow me to rephrase,” Quillian said. “Where we are going, what we are doing, could be quite dangerous for non-mages. Thus, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave them behind.”

They had suspected this would happen. Dorian relented and Krem and Fenris retreated, presumably to find the twins. They would have to wait for Ghilani and Sparrow to arrive and tell them the location of the ritual before following Dorian and carrying out the attack. It wasn’t ideal, but Dorian reminded himself he’d taken on a dozen mages at once in Haven, and won. Granted, he’d nearly passed out and it was only Cullen’s helping hand that kept him on his feet, but still. If he had to buy them a little extra time, he was certainly capable.

Quillian was leading him out of the ballroom and down an echoing, empty hall with a dead end. Quillian didn’t bat an eyelash, just raised his hand and pressed it to the white stone. The wall shifted with an eerie blue glow, revealing a set of rather ominous spiraling stairs. Dorian bit his lip – again, it had been expected that the ritual would be somewhere hidden by magic; it just made things even more difficult. He hoped the elves had their information right, otherwise he would be trapped down here with all these madmen, forced to help them perform a ritual that was a bad idea wrapped in a nightmare…

_Get ahold of yourself,_ he admonished. _The heir to House Pavus, scared by a dingy basement? Ridiculous._

Quillian spoke quietly as they descended. “Everyone else has arrived, I am told. Titus has everything in order.”

“Excellent,” Dorian murmured, hands clammy as they slid along the smooth bannister. “Pardon my curiosity, but…what exactly does this ritual entail?”

Quillian glanced back at him, his eyes barely visible in the dimness, more like empty sockets of shadow. “A good question. I do apologize for all the secrecy – the ritual uses a very ancient and valuable artifact of our nation’s past, a relic once thought to be lost and destroyed.” They were nearing the end of the stairs, and Dorian could see a slice of light at the bottom, a heavy door cracked open. Quillian continued. “This relic is called the Magrellan. Have you heard of it?”

“I have…” Dorian hedged. “It was in one of Magister Alexius’s old manuscripts. If I remember correctly, it was some kind of link to the Fade? Beyond that, I’m afraid you’ll have to educate me.”

“You’re quite right,” Quillian replied. “It is a link, but more than that…it is a link that can be manipulated. Imagine – the power to control who was connected to the Fade and who was not. And all we need to do is perform a sacrifice.”

Dorian swallowed the bile rising in his throat as the magister reached for the door handle. “I expected as much. But such a device must require a large sacrifice, yes? Will slaves be used?”

Quillian swung the door open, flooding the stairwell with light that momentarily blinded Dorian. “Oh, we tried slaves,” he said airily. “Wasted about twenty of them – but it didn’t work. They weren’t enough, you see – the Magrellan requires something stronger than that. Something truly powerful.” When Dorian’s eyes finally adjusted, he was standing in a large, circular chamber lined with all the mages he had seen at the galas before, each with a staff in hand. But the center of attention was a towering structure that looked just like the drawing Fenris had found in his library – except the ring at the top was empty. His brow furrowed. There was no sacrifice yet?

Titus broke off from the others, his eyes glinting as he extended a hand to Dorian. “Our guest of honor has arrived.”

The wheels were turning in Dorian’s head, arriving at a simple, horrifying answer. No. No, that wasn’t…that wasn’t possible, they couldn’t possibly –

Quillian, behind him, spoke close to his ear. “You see, Dorian, we realized that it would take more than an ordinary sacrifice for this ritual to succeed. Mere slaves did nothing. No, what we needed…what we needed was a mage. But not just any mage. A mage from a well-bred family, with a natural talent and a deep well of magic to be drawn from. But where would we find such a mage? We couldn’t exactly scour the country for one!”

Titus came closer. “And then, we discovered you – the notorious Dorian Pavus. A traitor in our midst. It was too easy.”

Dorian was frozen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said lightly. “I believe you must be mistaken.”

“Must we?” Titus countered, and nodded at the circle of mages behind him. The circle parted, revealing an elven girl forced to her knees, gagged and bound and bloodied, a ruby necklace ‘round her neck. Sparrow stared at him frantically, blue eyes shining with tears and anger and a warning that came to late. _They know._ Oh, Maker. He was so fucked. He was so, so fucked. 

With a snarl, he raised a barrier that surrounded him like a second skin, but it was too thin, too weak, and he knew it. They knew it. He’d never been particularly good with defensive spells. But damned if he was going to give up just like that. His eyes flicked back and forth – there were at least twenty of them. Too many. He could feel their eyes on him, sizing him up, hungry – and he could feel Sparrow’s eyes, painfully desperate, hoping for a miracle. Dorian, unfortunately, did not believe in miracles.

So maybe they were going to kill him. But Dorian wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

With a furious cry, flames filled the room.

*

Fenris folded his arms, leaning on a wall next to Krem. Mavis and Avis chatted discreetly nearby with Adrianna, all of them darting furtive glances in the direction Dorian had gone. Fenris cursed for the fifth time in a minute. “What is _taking_ them so long?” he snapped. “For all we know, the ritual’s already started.”

Krem looked like he was thinking the same thing, but he just shrugged and muttered, “Maybe rituals like this one take a while? Who knows. But you’re right; they should be here by now.”

No sooner had he spoken, Fenris caught sight of a small shape hurrying through the outskirts of the crowd, her eyes widening when she saw them. His brow furrowed. Ghilani was alone. He nudged Krem, and the two of them surreptitiously went to meet the pale elf at the edge of the room. Mavis and Avis saw, and ushered Adrianna over, shielding the elves and Krem from prying eyes. 

Fenris knew immediately that something was wrong, and the panic in Ghilani’s expression confirmed that. He could never have expected what she said next, though. “They have Sparrow,” she whispered. Krem sucked in a sharp, shocked breath. “It wasn’t her fault, but they found one of her letters and…” She paused to compose herself and looked at them both grimly. “They likely know everything by now.” She glanced around at the group, eyes widening. “Where is the Altus?”

“Dorian already went with Quillian,” Krem muttered, alarm obvious in his tone. 

“It was a trap, then,” Fenris said. He sounded oddly calm, though his heart was pounding and his mind was spinning. “Where is the ritual taking place?”

“We must go quickly,” Ghilani said, motioning for them to follow her. Adrianna hurried in step beside her, with Mavis and Avis close behind. They got a few strange looks, but Fenris could’ve cared less. As soon they were out of earshot from any nosy nobles, Ghilani said, “You realize this means the entire plan is ruined. We may have lost our element of surprise, which was one of the only things we had on our side. By the Dread Wolf, this is practically suicide.”

“We just have to destroy the Magrellan,” Krem replied. “As long as we do that…it doesn’t matter if we make it out alive or not.” He faltered. “Sparrow is probably already dead. And Dorian –”

“Dorian’s as powerful as any magister, maybe more so,” Adrianna cut in sharply. “And Sparrow may still be alive. The Venatori like to play with their prey.”

Ghilani shook her head. “Then we go. The Red Crown may not be rising, but if we fall we will take them down with us.”

There were murmurs of assent. “Then go,” Fenris said. “Show us the way.”

*

The long hall would have been foreboding enough without the addition of a dozen mages standing at the end of it, guarding what appeared to be a blank wall. Fenris’s eyes narrowed. 

“It’s beyond the wall!” Ghilani shouted, pulling her makeshift staff from the hidden folds of her cloak. 

A current zapped through the air, making the hair on the back of Fenris’s neck stand up. Electricity danced over Adrianna’s skin before whirling across the hall and ensnaring the mages in its clutches, lifting them up in a sputtering cage of static. “Go! I’ll keep them off you,” Adrianna called in a strained voice, her brow beaded with sweat as twelve mages struggled against her. It wasn’t going to be a very long fight.

Ghilani, Fenris and Krem went straight to the wall, but Avis wavered. “I can’t leave her,” he said, so soft Fenris barely caught it, and then louder, “I’ll help her! Go!”

Mavis cried out to her brother, but Ghilani yanked her along and the four of them ran until their hands hit the solid stone. Ghilani’s palm glowed blue against it, and with a groan, the wall rolled away to reveal a dark stairway, a gaping maw to the belly of the beast. The wall closed behind them and a chilling, crushing silence replaced the whistle of knives and crackle of electricity. 

“Quickly,” Ghilani urged, hurrying down the stairs to the door at the bottom, which was shut tightly, padlocked and barred. Ghilani’s mouth twisted. “Stand back,” she said.

With a blast of earth and a sick crunch of metal, the door was reduced to smithereens. The silence was broken by surprised shouts and a steady hum growing in volume that sounded like nothing Fenris had ever heard before. It was neither natural nor mechanical but some twisted mixture of both, and his eyes lifted away from the shocked Venatori, up to the Magrellan itself. The jarring hum seemed to emanate from the device, shockwaves pouring out from the massive hourglass vial half-full of blood and…something else. Energy? No. _Mana._

Fenris’s eyes rose higher still, and a tremor went through him. Krem swore loudly.

Dorian was suspended from the Magrellan’s ring, tubes trailing from his body just like in that book, except this was no scribbled sketch. This was real, a nightmare in full color and three dimensions. Magic shimmered in the air as the Venatori prepared to strike, and the lyrium came to life, itching under Fenris’s skin as it always did – but this time, he gave it what it wanted. He let himself go, let the lyrium sing through his body until it blurred and became insubstantial as mist, poised and ready to kill.

And kill he did.

His lyrium ghost ripped through the first two mages that approached him, a hand solidifying in each of their chests and twisting savagely, gore splattering across their fine robes and his shining armor. A fireball nearly singed his side, shot from behind, but a sword slashed through the air and Krem cut the mage down with a swift blow. Fenris grinned ferally, unsheathing his own sword and throwing himself into the fray.

He had just sliced the head off a mage with a fondness for spirit blades when he saw Sparrow getting to her feet unsteadily, a frayed rope falling from her raw wrists. She ripped the gag out of her mouth and rolled her shoulders, snatching the staff from the nearest corpse and snapping its sharp tip off – a makeshift dagger. Fenris’s eyes met hers and she gave him a little wave before darting towards Krem, their bodies falling into a deadly dance.

Ghilani and Mavis kept themselves at a distance, Mavis setting nasty ice traps underfoot and Ghilani hurling unseen forces every which way, knocking their enemies to the ground and keeping them there. The elven mages’ spells felt different from the Venatori’s, somehow – almost like Dorian’s magic. Almost. Fenris was certain no magic felt quite like his. And he could feel it, even now, swirling in the air, building as the Magrellan’s hum grew louder and louder. But it wasn’t just Dorian’s magic. It was something darker, older, stronger…something _wrong._ They had to stop it.

And it actually looked like they had a chance of doing so – over half the mages were dead now, their blood staining the floor scarlet. For all their hours of studying and practice and ‘natural talent,’ they were inexperienced and inept compared to their opponents. They had never fought in real battles before. Well. Most of them hadn’t.

Titus was the exception. The magister kept himself surrounded by a barrier of whirling energy that carried him away before any of the blades or spells could get too close. Fenris’s hatred for Titus had grown since he’d last seen him – he now knew Titus had helped Danarius give him the markings with Hadriana. He would delight in killing him. He would have delighted in killing Quillian, too, but strangely the other magister was nowhere to be found.

One of the last remaining mages fell with a cry, and Titus’s defenses strengthened. Fenris watched him carefully, circling and searching for a weakness. There always was one. And when he found it, he would make this mage’s death as excruciating as Danarius’s…

“Your master is gone already,” Titus taunted from inside the safety of his barrier. “The Fade is consuming him little by little – don’t worry, he’ll last just long enough to finish the ritual.” His laughter was low and rattling. “Can’t you feel it? The link is nearly complete –” His barrier flickered, distracted, and Fenris saw his chance, phasing into a silver specter, through the magic that tried to keep him out and failed. He shoved a hand into the magister’s middle, fingers scraping and scratching through his innards, until he found his spine and _yanked_ , Titus’s scream cutting off halfway as the delicate bones broke. The barrier fell, and the magister with it. Fenris wiped his hand off on Titus’s robe and turned, ready to face the next one.

But there were none left. The room stank of death and blood, covered in corpses that stared unseeingly back at him. Krem and Sparrow were huddled around a couple of the corpses, and when Fenris joined them he saw it was Mavis, a spear of ice protruding from her chest, and beside her Ghilani, her neck bloodied and cloak ripped and scorched. Their eyes were open and glazed, and Sparrow closed them with a sweep of her palm. “May you find peace at the Maker’s side,” she murmured. “Or the Creators. Or…or whoever is there.” Her voice broke and she slumped miserably against Krem. He wrapped an arm around her and they stood slowly.

The hum was reaching a crescendo. The three of them stared helplessly at the Magrellan, at Dorian’s unmoving body. “We need to break the connection,” Fenris said faintly. “Sparrow, can you –” But she was already nodding and dashing towards the machine, climbing up the metal supports until she reached Dorian. Krem and Fenris held their breath as she reached out and pressed two fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse.

“He’s alive,” she said, but she didn’t sound very optimistic. Still, Fenris released the breath he was holding. Dorian would be fine. He had to be. Fenris hadn’t come this far only for that stupid mage to die.

When Sparrow sliced through the tubes, the humming broke off abruptly, replaced by an angry buzz. Fenris’s markings burned as the Veil thinned, the Fade fighting to break free. “Now, do it now!” she told them urgently, and Fenris leapt forward, bringing his sword down against the glass vial as hard as he could. It shattered with a resounding _boom_ and a rush of blood and violent energy that knocked Fenris backwards. The dust settled, the hum stopped, and when it did Sparrow was climbing down slowly from the destroyed Magrellan, struggling to support Dorian’s weight. Halfway down, her arms gave out and his body tumbled lifelessly to the blood-stained tiles.

Fenris went to his side swiftly, yanking out the needles in his wrists and chest while Krem took out the ones on his legs. Fenris understood Sparrow’s doubt now – Dorian was soaked in his own blood, skin ashen and closed eyes lined with dark circles. He didn’t move, even when Fenris shook him. His head just lolled to the side, his fading pulse thudding slower and slower. 

Sparrow knelt down next to them. “Why…why isn’t he healing himself?” she whispered.

Fenris heard Krem’s voice as if in a dream, far away and muffled by the blood roaring in his ears. “The…the Magrellan takes mana. He doesn’t have any left, and he’s in no state to regenerate it.”

Fenris shook him again, harder, his throat tight. “Dorian,” he hissed. “Open your eyes, you stupid –”

“Fenris.” Krem stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. But there’s nothing we can…” He cleared his throat and looked down, swiping a hand roughly across his face. 

Fenris stared at Krem, then back down at Dorian. The mage coughed, and they leaned forward hopefully, but a thick trickle of blood came from his mouth. He was choking on his own blood. 

“There’s nothing we can do,” Krem repeated, quiet. Resigned. 

But with sudden revelation, Fenris said, “You’re wrong.”

Krem blinked, bewildered. “What do you –”

“There is something _I_ can do,” Fenris murmured, taking Dorian’s limp hand in his own and squeezing before placing it on his bare arm, atop the largest lyrium veins. Once, years ago, he had sworn never to do this again – to say it was unpleasant was an incredible understatement, and he feared the memories it might dislodge. But he would not sit here idly while Dorian died in his arms. He would _not_.

Krem watched him carefully. “Fenris…”

“You may want to stand back,” Fenris advised, eyes still fixed intently on Dorian’s face. The fingers against his arm curled slightly, seeking out the lyrium, and he forced himself to relax. Dorian made another choking sound, but this time his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused when they fell upon Fenris. “I forbid you to die,” Fenris said, curling closer to the mage’s body, holding Dorian’s hand tighter against his arm. The markings started to glow, inviting and irresistible. He didn’t stop them.

Comprehension flashed in Dorian’s eyes and he struggled weakly, trying to break away from Fenris’s grasp. “No,” he choked out. “Can’t –”

Fenris leaned close to him, touching his cheek reassuringly. “Take it,” he said. “Take what you need from me.”

Dorian’s eyes were pleading with him, his stubbornness remaining even on the verge of death…but the mage’s will to survive was stronger, and his eyes fell shut in surrender. Fenris braced himself.

Then he felt it – the last remnants of Dorian’s magic reaching out, drawn to the lyrium like a magnet, pulling on its energy greedily. It took everything Fenris had not to fight it. “Take it,” he murmured again, and then the lyrium was prickling, straining under his skin and aching at Dorian’s touch. Fenris counted down in his head – it would only take a few seconds before –

Agony and magic and lyrium coursed through him, Dorian’s hand on his arm like a vice, a brand, taking and taking and taking, burning him up from the inside out, filling his vision with brilliant golden light that faded to black.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eek, we're getting to the end here! it's been fun, guys. thanks again for your support, and enjoy.

Pain was all he knew, his skin boiling with heat and his head splitting, but the worst pain of all was in his arm. It was manacled, or at least that’s what it felt like – the metal shackle was red-hot, searing his flesh, his skin falling away until only bone and lyrium were left. But then the manacle shifted and he realized with dazed, dizzying confusion that it was a hand, fingers digging into lyrium lines with frantic intensity, blood running down them. Fenris could not tell if it was his own blood or not, but his entire arm was sticky with it.

Someone was shouting, a man’s strong arms trying to drag him away from the hand but Fenris lashed out at them with his free arm – he was not done, the hand had not let go, Fenris’s purpose had not yet been fulfilled. Master needed power, and Fenris could give him that even if it hurt. It was what he was made for, after all. It was what made him _useful._

The hand twitched, energy surging through it, and blearily Fenris registered that he was pressed up against a fallen body…his master’s body? No…when he turned his eyes upon it, through the black spots he saw a younger, fairer face, darker hair and skin, finer robes stained heavily with blood. Gray eyes wide open, shining with a golden flare. Though the man didn’t make a sound, his expression was one of ecstasy from the overload of lyrium flowing through him. Magic crackled around them blindingly, stinging wherever it touched his skin.

Fenris whimpered and slumped, the constant pain draining him, his nerves screaming for respite, his eyelids drooping as his vision blacked out again, breath trapped tight in his chest. It had never gone on this long. He wanted to beg for it to stop, even to pull away himself, but knew that he would be punished. He was but a tool to be used, a prized pet, and he would not disappoint his master by showing weakness. Dimly, he felt himself collapse against the ground. It was damp and sticky against his cheek. The air smelled metallic and burnt. 

The man was shouting again, but this time Fenris could hear what he said. “He’s healed, get Fenris off him, it’s too much –”

Fenris tried to stop them, but the strength was gone from his limbs. Hands dragged him away from the body, and Fenris hissed when fingernails slashed as the man’s hand was torn from his skin and then the pain stopped abruptly, so sudden that he doubled over and retched, shaking violently. A smaller hand touched his cheek, a blur of blue eyes crossed his vision. “Fenris? Fenris, look at me. Are you –”

He groaned and toppled onto his side, arm throbbing, lyrium humming and over-sensitized. The walls around him were splattered with blood and lined with bodies, but his eyes were fixed only on the man who was not his master. His skin was aglow with golden light, making him look celestial, ethereal – much like a spirit. Fenris had seen a spirit once, before his master bound it and turned it into a demon. A spirit of hope. It had been beautiful, just like this man.

“Dorian,” he croaked, the man’s name coming to him in a rush, and with it everything else he had forgotten in his agony. 

“He’s alive,” the other man said, a hand on Fenris’s brow. _Krem_. “Shit, Fenris…hang on.” Fenris blinked sluggishly. He was so tired. He wanted to sleep. “Don’t you dare. Stay with me, c’mon.”

“Alive,” he whispered. “Dorian.” And then he let his eyes fall shut.

*

Dorian slowly got to his feet, his fists clenched and his heart hammering in his chest. Vaguely, he was aware of an ache in his wrists and thighs, but the bigger issue at hand was that he was in the Fade and he didn’t remember ever going to sleep. Generally, especially for a mage, that was not a good thing. Had he taken lyrium, then? No…then he remembered – hands holding him down, choking his magic into submission, strapping him into the Magrellan, sliding hollowed needles into his veins and then…

He swallowed, reassessing the situation. That blasted device was trapping him here, then, while his body remained connected to it, supplying it with the mana it needed to complete the ritual. “Kaffas,” he growled, shaking his head in frustration. He needed to get out of here, needed to warn Krem and Fenris but…how?! As far as he could see, the landscape was a smoky sheen of grayness, indistinct shapes blurring in and out of reality. Unreality? Ugh. 

That odd elf who’d disappeared after Corypheus, Solas…he’d always gone on and on about how amazing the Fade was. To each his own and all that rot, but personally Dorian didn’t much like the Fade unless it contained a desire demon feeding him grapes. Which had happened, mind you (it had been lovely up until the desire demon attempted to possess him, though that was to be expected). But unfortunately there were no grape-bearing desire demons in sight. 

Dorian took a step forward and almost immediately the world changed, rippling with color and walls that rose around him. He stumbled back as if to reverse it, but the Fade had solidified, and now looked frighteningly real. The walls on either side were heavy gray stone, and the hazy ground had become hard marble. Rich tapestries and portraits in oils were hung along the length of the hallway, and he slowly walked forward, studying them. The tapestries were…memories. Scenes in Qarinus with a small boy tugging on his mother’s sleeve, a teenager brandishing a staff with fire whirling around him as his father looked on adoringly, a spare bedroom with a smirking shirtless boy and a reluctant broad-chested man, a dark hallway and a splash of blood –

Dorian quickly kept walking. The portraits were memories too, in a way – people he’d known. His mother and father. Alexius. Felix. Lavellan. Rilienus. Adrianna. Quillian. Krem. Fenris. They seemed to go on forever.

All of them were dark and grim, but as he neared Fenris’s, the painted lyrium began to glow. Dorian frowned, tentatively stretching out his hand. As his fingertips touched the canvas, sensation spiked through him – stinging pain, a loud humming buzz filling his ears – the world changed.

He was still within the stone walls, but the hallway was gone. Instead, he was in a bedroom decorated with lovely silks and drapery, a canopy bed at the center. There was a man sitting on it, awash in shadow, fully clothed with a bowl of red grapes. He offered it to Dorian and said in a familiar voice, “You’ve really done it this time, Pavus.”

His eyes widened. “Felix?” The shadows shifted, the man’s face revealing itself. Felix shrugged and popped another grape into his mouth. Dorian hesitated. “You’re not Felix.”

“Maybe,” Felix hinted. “Maybe not. Does it really matter? Here, sit. Might as well be comfortable while you wait to die.”

Dorian frowned but did sit down gingerly next to him. If it was a demon, it was certainly doing a good job of disguising itself. It had gotten every detail right, down to his easy smile and gentle eyes. It made Dorian’s heart hurt. “I’m going to die, then?” he asked. “That’s not very encouraging of you.”

Felix rolled a grape between two fingers thoughtfully, then squished it. Dorian recoiled, getting angry now. “So, what? You’re just some vulture who thought it’d be amusing to toy with the dying mage in his last moments, maybe get a chance to take his corpse for a stroll afterwards? Is that what you want?”

Felix glanced at him. He looked…sad. “You always were a clever man, Dorian,” he said. “But I’m not a demon. I’m not here to possess you.”

“Then what are you and why are you here?” Dorian snapped.

“Your situation is…unusual. Your body is being used to open a massive link to the Fade, which will surely kill you. Kill your mind, I mean. Your body will remain alive, providing mana until the connection is disrupted.” Felix sighed at Dorian’s horrified expression. “Yes. It is rather unfortunate. Even more unfortunate – your consciousness will remain here, in the Magrellan’s prison, for all eternity. Or however long they plan to use you. You will eventually go insane, deteriorating into a spirit of sorts and eventually, perhaps, into a demon.”

Dorian shook his head. “That’s…how do you know all this?”

“Centuries ago another unlucky man, an elf from the Imperium’s Golden Age, was also sacrificed to the Magrellan. He went mad. It did not take long at all. When his body was disconnected, he was freed from this place, but his original form was corrupted and the Fade turned him into a demon like no other. You have met him in the form of the Nightmare at Adamant.”

Dorian paled. “That’s…that’s not possible. So what you’re saying is…when I die, I’m to become a…a monster like that thing?! And there’s nothing to be done to stop it?”

“I’m afraid not,” Felix said. “I am here because I wished to warn you, in the hope that it might slow your descent into madness. I cannot stay much longer, and when I go this place will show its true appearance and start to play its tricks on you.”

Dorian looked down, feeling very numb. “Oh,” he murmured. “I…suppose I ought to thank you, then.” He took a grape from the bowl and ate it with difficulty, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. It tasted like sunshine. “How long can you stay?”

“I can remain here as long as you remain alive,” Felix replied softly. 

“And how long will that be?” Dorian pressed, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Not long,” Felix said shortly. Then he put the bowl down and stood. “Come. Walk with me.”

Dorian did, trailing after him uncertainly. The bedroom door led out to a long gallery of sorts with arched stained glass windows. Light filtered in, casting colored patchwork patterns on the floor and their skin. “Where are we going?” Dorian asked.

“Oh, nowhere in particular,” Felix said. “I just thought you might like to walk around a bit, admire this place before it all goes to shit. Huh, that rhymed. How lovely.”

Dorian snorted. “Felix would be proud of your portrayal of him. Remarkably accurate.”

Felix raised an eyebrow. “If you say so.”

Suddenly, a stabbing pain shot through Dorian, and he fell to his knees, gasping for air. Felix went to his side at once, helping him stand again. “What was _that_?” Dorian hissed, staring at his wrists from whence the pain had come.

“I don’t know!” Felix said, bewildered. 

The next wave of pain was even worse, and his legs gave out, his cry echoing through the gallery. There was a single moment of silence, and then all the windows shattered in unison, raining glass down on the two of them with a rumbling roar. After the windows came the walls, crashing to the ground, rubble filling the air. Then they were both falling, into a void of sound and sensation and Dorian’s scream stretched out far, far above them until the breath was knocked out of his body when they hit something solid.

There were no more walls. Felix scrambled away from him, wringing his hands. “You’ve been disconnected somehow,” he said. “But it’s too late. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean?!” Dorian cried, but he already knew – when he looked down at his hands, they were fading, growing translucent, becoming nothingness. Without the prison to preserve him, he was going to die like everyone else did. “Oh, Maker,” he whispered, his breaths coming shallow and fast. “There must be something…I can heal myself! Right?” But Felix just watched him forlornly and when Dorian called upon his magic there was nothing. No. _No_. He had told Krem they might not make it out of this, but he’d never actually thought…

Felix reached out and held one of his vanishing hands. “I can stay long enough for you to say goodbye,” he explained. Then Felix began to glow, a pulsing radiance that overtook Dorian’s vision. When he opened his eyes, he was lying on his back, more exhausted than he’d ever been before. Halfheartedly, he reached for his magic again, but he was drained dry. Without it, he felt very lonely. Broken. He fought to keep his eyes open. His throat felt like sandpaper, and when he tried to speak a weak gurgle was all that came out.

But then he felt…something. Someone was holding his hand. Felix? His brow furrowed, and he managed to turn his head slightly, eyes widening. Fenris was kneeling there, beautiful and bloody, forcing Dorian’s palm against the skin of his arm with intense determination on his face. He glanced up and his lips curled grimly. “I forbid you to die,” he said. As he did, the lyrium came to life, and Dorian’s whole body shuddered at the promise of tempting power so, so close. But Dorian resisted. He would not…he couldn’t use Fenris like that, like some living lyrium draught. He’d rather die.

_No_ , a voice in his head whispered. _You wouldn’t._

“No,” he managed to argue, his voice cracked and weak. “Can’t –”

But then Fenris was leaning over him, cupping his face. His eyes were full of unshed tears, though his voice was calm and steady. “Take it. Take what you need from me.”

Dorian was fighting a losing battle. The lyrium’s song reverberated through his veins, persuasive and alluring, and the single strand of magic inside him strained to reach it, to take its power for his own. “Take it,” Fenris said again, and this time his voice trembled. He winced and Dorian tried to stop, tried to take it back, but it was too late. Magic met lyrium and Dorian drew in a startled gasp, visceral pain and pleasure exploding into golden light, consuming him, healing him, making him whole. His hand clamped down tight, forgetting Fenris, forgetting anything except the lyrium and the will to survive.

_Let go,_ Felix said, but Dorian was too far gone. Ecstasy exploded behind his eyelids, body arching and nails digging into skin as he tried to get to the source, desperate for more. _Stop, it’s too much, you’re hurting him –_

And then there was nothing at all.

*

Fenris was in a warm bed in a cool room full of hushed voices.

A woman’s voice, unfamiliar and familiar at the same time. “This is the elf who saved my son?” A firm hand fell upon his brow, pushing his hair out of his face. He kept his eyes closed, still half-asleep. But he wanted to hear what they had to say.

Krem’s voice. “Yes, Lady Pavus.”

She huffed haughtily. “Just Aquinea, please. I despise that title. _Pavus?_ That is my husband’s name, not mine, thank you very much. But nevermind all that. This elf – Fenris – deserves some sort of reward for remedying my son’s astonishing stupidity. Is he a slave?”

“No,” Krem said. “He’s a liberatus.”

Well, that was news to Fenris. When had that happened?

“Just a liberatus?” Aquinea scoffed. “That’s hardly better than a slave. As such, I think it would be appropriate to make him a Soporatus like yourself. If not for him, this family’s legacy would have bled out on the filthy floor of a blood ritual chamber.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Krem said, sounding about as shocked as Fenris felt. He was quite unused to being granted favors by magisters’ wives. “I’m sure Fenris will be very grateful. Even if, uh…he’s not very good about showing it.”

“As he should be,” Aquinea said. “As for the other elf…yes, you there. What’s your name?”

“Sparrow, my Lady.”

“Little birds and wolves?” Aquinea sighed. “My, my, they really are running out of good names. No matter. You helped too. Are you a liberatus as well?”

There was a long pause. Then Sparrow whispered, “No, my Lady. I belong to –”

“Not anymore you don’t. I’ll arrange for you to be made a Soporatus as well, and I believe that concludes our business here.” Aquinea’s skirts rustled and then she paused. “Oh, and I suppose you should be given some reward as well, Aclassi. What do you want? Gold? Status? Slaves?”

Krem coughed. “Ah…no, but…would it be possible to erase army records?”

“Now, why in the world would you want to…ah. I see. Yes, Aclassi. That can be done. Is that all?”

“Some extra gold couldn’t hurt,” Krem remarked hopefully.

“Fine.” The door creaked open. “Consider yourselves lucky. If my son _had_ died, I would not be so generous.” It shut with a thud.

“Can she really do all that?” Sparrow asked shakily.

“I think she’s used to getting what she wants,” Krem replied. His voice quavered slightly too. “I hope she can.”

*

“Dorian.”

Dorian, slowly, opened his eyes. They felt glued shut, and his head was pounding like a hangover multiplied by ten. He groaned, the room swimming into focus. Tan stone, white sheets, clear air, a bay window overlooking the sea. _Home?_ His gaze turned to the bedside, to the man sitting there and saying his name. A man he’d happily turned his back on in a Ferelden tavern three years ago, with the intention of never speaking to him again. 

“Father,” he said warily, body protesting as he struggled to sit up. Halward reached out as if to steady him and Dorian flinched away. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped. “Why am I here?”

Halward frowned but withdrew his hand. “Your bodyguard, Aclassi, took you out of Minrathous to ensure your safety and brought you here after the…incident. It’s good to see you’re finally awake.”

Dorian disagreed. Whatever nothingness he’d been floating in before was far preferable to this terrible migraine and pervasive tiredness. But he just asked shortly, “How long?”

Halward’s expression flickered, and Dorian was surprised to see genuine fear there. Concern. “Five days,” he replied. “The elf was out for three.”

“The elf…?” Dorian’s eyes widened. “Fenris?”

“Yes.” Halward’s frown deepened. “The one who gave you a lyrium overdose.”

Dorian blinked. “Well,” he said after a pause. “That explains why my insides feel like overheated jelly.” He chewed his lip, some of his memory returning. Fenris holding his hand against his arm, telling him to take what he needed to…apparently he needed to work on improving his self-control. Then again, he always preferred things in excess. “Is Fenris alright?” he added weakly. “Where is he?”

Halward sighed. “Dorian –”

“Where is he?”

Halward gave up. “The bedroom down the hall. But you need to rest –”

“I’ve had five days of rest! I’m fine! I feel wonderful.” Dorian stumbled out of the bed, his nightclothes hanging loosely off his frame. He hardly noticed, hurrying towards the door and bracing himself against every piece of furniture along the way. Halward sighed again, disapprovingly, but didn’t make a move to stop him. Dorian counted it as progress.

Dorian pushed the door open and limped down the hall, trying to sort out his jumbled mess of thoughts. He had…been attacked. Then in the Fade. Then with Felix, who told him he was going to die and then…and then Fenris had saved him. Why? Why had Fenris done that for him, when the elf had made it abundantly clear he wanted nothing to do with him? He had to know. 

He reached the door and paused, his hand resting against the smooth surface, hesitating. He’d caused Fenris so much pain. Fenris had offered to help him and he’d succumbed to base temptation, the kind that Fenris had always said all mages could never resist. And Dorian hadn’t. He’d taken far more than he needed, and they’d both suffered the consequences. If he didn’t before, Fenris probably hated him now. He’d said he trusted Dorian. How could he still, after what Dorian had done?

So maybe this was to be a goodbye instead. Dorian took a deep breath, steeling himself for the angry words that were sure to come, and opened the door.

He hadn’t quite expected Fenris to be awake, but he was, bare-chested and sitting up against a ridiculously large mound of pillows, staring out the open window pensively. His ears flicked at Dorian’s hesitant step and he cocked his head, turning to face him. Fenris blinked, surprised and wary. “You’re…awake?”

Dorian leaned against the wall carefully, his knees wobbling a little. “So it would seem.” There was a beat of silence, then he stepped forward and said desperately, “Fenris, I’m so sorry. I never meant to – I shouldn’t have…I know I hurt you. Tremendously. And I know you can’t possibly forgive what I did and I’m not asking you to, I’m just…I’m just saying that I understand you want to leave and never see me again. That would…that would be for the best, I think. Because I think we both knew from the start that it was foolish to even pretend this would ever have worked out, and so we really just ought to go our separate ways and try to forget about this.”

Fenris’s ears went back, his eyes widening further and filling with…hurt? “You…you want me to leave?” 

Dorian stuttered off into silence. “You…don’t you want to leave? I thought…that’s what you said. After you remembered. You said it was the end, and after the ritual was over you were leaving. The ritual is over. And as soon as you’re well enough, you’re…you’re free to go.” He looked away. “Before the ritual, Krem and I…well, I changed your papers. You’re a liberatus now.”

Fenris continued to stare at him. It was getting rather unnerving. Then he said, “You. You were the one who freed me?”

“Er…yes. But, listen, that’s not –”

“Why?”

Dorian cleared his throat. “I, ah. There was a very strong possibility we all might die, and I wanted you to die a free man. It’s…silly. But we’re not dead, thanks to you, so it means you can go wherever you like now and not have to worry about slavers hunting you or whatever it is that they do –”

“I’m a Soporatus now, actually,” Fenris interrupted. “Your mother made me one. Sparrow, too. And she erased the records of Krem’s desertion.”

“I…see. Well, even better then! You can go wherever you like with the knowledge that you have full rights as a citizen of the Imperium –”

“But what if I don’t want to go anywhere?” Fenris questioned. “What if I just want to stay here?”

“I…don’t understand. You said –”

“What I’m saying _now_ is that I’m not leaving.” Fenris folded his arms. “Our work’s not done here. And, contrary to what I said before, _we_ are not done yet either.”

Dorian faltered. “What do you mean?”

“You are an idiot,” Fenris said matter-of-factly, throwing the sheets back and slipping out of the bed, stalking over to him slowly and deliberately. “And, admittedly, I am an idiot too. We are both idiots. But mostly you.”

“Okay?” Dorian said in a small, confused voice.

“But I am an idiot who saved your life, mage. In a very painful and unpleasant way that I don’t wish to repeat, so please refrain from dying again any time soon.”

“I’ll…try not to?”

“You are missing the point,” Fenris muttered. “The point is that I don’t go around saving just any idiots. Especially not idiots who I plan to abandon afterwards. That would be stupid, and I am not stupid. Unlike you.”

“Glad we’ve established that,” Dorian said breathlessly, backing up as Fenris neared him.

“I don’t care that you hurt me,” Fenris admitted. “It was not ideal, but you would be dead otherwise. And I could not let that happen.”

They were inches apart. Dorian exhaled. “Why not?”

“I’ve killed many mages,” Fenris murmured. “Especially ones from Tevinter. But you were the first I ever saved. And I don’t regret it. Even though you are a spoiled, arrogant, vain, naïve, irritating –”

Dorian coughed.

Fenris trailed off and sighed, his shoulders slumping. “But you are not the man I first thought you to be. If you were, I would not have saved you. And I would not have decided to remain with you for a while, if you’ll have me.”

“You want to stay? With me?”

“Yes.” Fenris’s brow furrowed and he lowered his head. “But if you don’t want me to, I will go. If that is what you truly wish, I…I will leave and never come back.” He shuffled back a few steps. “You need never see me again.”

Something snapped in Dorian, perhaps the last thread of self-restraint he had, and he strode forward and closed the distance between them, kissing Fenris like he’d always wanted to, deep and long and sweet. Fenris didn’t stop him, just clung to him and kissed him right back like he was dying for it, and maybe he was. Both of them had the worst morning breath in the history of Thedas, and neither of them cared at all. It was magical. (Not literally; magic kisses were not something Dorian was very keen on trying with Fenris.)

Fenris did not pull away when the kiss broke, but instead leaned his forehead against Dorian’s and looked unflinchingly into his eyes, lips parted and chin tilted up. Dorian understood. _We’re equal_. He stroked Fenris’s hair reassuringly and smiled. “If this turned out to actually just be an extremely elaborate and cruel dream, I would be very, very upset,” he said.

“Not a dream,” Fenris chuckled. 

“We are idiots, aren’t we?” Dorian mused. “Although, you know, I’m still sorry for accidentally overdosing on your lyrium. That was incredibly oafish of me.”

Fenris glowered at him. “If you apologize for not dying one more time, I will _make_ you sorry.”

“Sorry,” Dorian murmured against his ear. 

Fenris growled. “I swear, mage, if I didn’t feel like I was about to fall over…”

“You too?” Dorian said brightly, though his legs were threatening to give out at any second. His insides still felt like overheated jelly, after all. “In that case, the bed might be a good idea.” Fenris looked at him from under lowered lashes and Dorian nearly did fall over right then. “I meant _sleeping_ …Fenris, I think you’re overestimating how much stamina I have right now,” he said weakly, but Fenris just herded him towards the bed until his thighs hit the mattress and he toppled backwards, pillows scattering everywhere.

Fenris crawled over him, legs bracketing his hips with a grin on his face that could only be described as wicked. “Let’s hope your father doesn’t decide to come and check on you, hm?”

Dorian groaned and threw a pillow at him, but he couldn’t stop smiling.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's (finally) finished. a final thank you to everybody who actually read this whole thing, you're the greatest.  
> my junior year of high school just started, so I'm not sure how much time I'll have to write anytime soon...still, I'm considering writing some pavellan later on, so...hang in there?
> 
> i really hope you enjoyed this silly lil thing. it was pretty much my first dragon age fic so uh thanks for being so sweet.

Unfortunately, not everything could be fixed by a kiss and a rough tumble (or two), and when Dorian finally managed to extricate himself from the suddenly very needy Fenris, he stumbled out of the bed, was overcome with dizziness, and promptly swayed and fainted, cracking his head on the nightstand on the way down. 

When he woke up, he was back in his own bed with a circle of worried faces peering down at him, and one very irritated one. Fenris scowled at him and stalked off without another word, leaving Krem, Sparrow, Adrianna and Avis to stare at him cautiously as if he might spontaneously combust at any moment. Dorian really doubted that was going to happen – he’d be lucky if he could conjure up a single flame right now, much less an explosion.

“Fenris is mad at me,” Dorian mumbled, throwing a hand over his eyes and trying to turn his face into the pillow. 

Krem snorted. “Yeah, but what’s new there?”

Dorian made an unhappy sound and closed his eyes.

Adrianna poked his shoulder. “No sleeping yet. We need to tell you something.”

“Well, get on with it then,” Dorian muttered grumpily. “I’m fairly certain I’m supposed to be resting and healing right now.”

“You definitely weren’t doing _that_ with Fenris an hour ago,” Krem snickered. 

Dorian gave him his most scathing glare. “We were…working some things out.”

“Not that your domestic struggles with him aren’t fascinating,” Adrianna drawled, “but the issue of Quillian still being alive is a little more important than that. He escaped the ritual chamber and, according to our contacts back in Minrathous, is biding his sweet time in his mansion.”

“Right,” Dorian said. Thinking about Quillian made his magic stir furiously, which was probably…not good. But he was so tired and annoyed he couldn’t find it in himself to care as much as he should’ve. “Well, why don’t we just…arrest him or something? Call the Templars, I’m sure they’d –”

Sparrow coughed. “You’ve got to be joking. We’re _not_ arresting him. The Templars here are hardly a force to be reckoned with.”

“He killed my sister!” Avis snapped. “And he made Adrianna kill her parents. He needs to be killed, not arrested.”

“Wait, your…Mavis is dead?”

Avis frowned and looked away. Adrianna sighed. “Yes, she was killed in the battle to save you and destroy the Magrellan. So was Ghilani. Sparrow and Avis are all that’s left of the Red Crown’s leaders. If we don’t strike soon, Quillian may have time to reassemble the Venatori and we can’t have that.”

“So what are you asking of me?” Dorian furrowed his brow. “I’m really not in any condition to go up against a magister, as much as I hate to admit it. If I died Fenris would probably kill me.”

“What we’re asking of you is…” Adrianna bit her lip. “You own slaves, yes? At the estate in the capital?”

“Yes,” Dorian said slowly, frowning. “Why, don’t you?”

“No,” she muttered. “I have paid servants.” Avis smiled a little.

Maker, she was going to be a much better Archon than he could’ve ever been.

“I was going to free them after the ritual, but then everything went to shit and now I’m an invalid so –”

“We’re not asking you to free them just yet,” Adrianna said hurriedly. “In fact, it’s good that you haven’t freed them yet because slaves tend to trust other slaves more than they trust servants. Which is why we need your slaves to get a message to Quillian’s slaves.”

Dorian folded his arms. “What message? And to whom?”

“We need them to make sure he doesn’t leave the mansion, and doesn’t know we’re coming. In short, we need them to place him under house arrest.”

Dorian blinked slowly. “How is that going to work?”

Sparrow piped up. “There are mages among Quillian’s slaves, along with plenty who know their way around a knife like I do. They should be enough with the added element of surprise. He’s alone in there, far as we know, and…well, we should end this the way we intended. With justice being served.” Her lip curled. “And trust me…they have plenty of reasons to want to help us. Quillian deserves whatever they do to him.” She nodded at Adrianna. “Whatever you do to him.”

“I have a few ideas,” Adrianna said levelly, though her eyes were dark. She looked back down at Dorian. “So? Will you ask them to do it? The tricky part is that you’re going to have to explain the Red Crown and all of that –”

“I, ah…may have already told some of them about it,” Dorian replied guiltily. “A…few months ago. The head slaves, they know. I can write to them.”

Krem was watching him curiously. Sparrow blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “Remind me not to ask you to keep any more secrets, Altus.”

Dorian huffed. “It was a…complicated situation. Now, someone fetch me some parchment and a quill unless you want me to swoon again.”

Sparrow rolled her eyes and left the room with Adrianna and Avis, leaving Krem still watching him with a raised eyebrow. Dorian glowered. “ _What_.”

“Why _did_ you tell them?” Krem raised an eyebrow. “Was it because of Fenris?”

“Venhedis,” Dorian exclaimed, flopping back down onto the bed. “Yes, it was because of Fenris. One of the slaves found out, and…well, obviously I didn’t want them to think he was _actually my slave_ , since…”

“That would make you look bad?” Krem guessed.

Dorian sighed. “It made the whole situation look bad.”

“And it _wasn’t_ bad?”

He made a face. “That’s debatable.”

“Not really.”

Dorian sighed again with a bit more feeling. “I’m not sure you should be throwing stones here, Krem. Sparrow _is_ actually a slave. A sex slave, in fact. Escort, if you prefer, but…”

“But I’m not a mage,” Krem replied sharply. “I’m not an Altus, either. And it’s not like I’m a stranger to my ‘superiors’ trying to walk all over me, Dorian. Besides, _she_ was the one who initiated it all. She was the one who made that choice and…went for it. Did Fenris?”

Dorian blanched in realization. “No,” he said. “Kaffas, I did and I was drunk out of my mind.”

Krem frowned. “Did you know what you were doing?”

“No!” Dorian put his head in his hands. “It was…my judgment was _impaired_ , it was stupid and impulsive and an accident –”

“Was he drunk?”

“No, I…I don’t think so? I barely remember, to be honest. But he…seemed sober enough?”

“Dorian.”

“It’s bad,” he said miserably. “I know. And that’s not even the worst of it.”

Krem waited warily.

“You…you remember when we went with Quillian to Danarius’s estate to learn more about one of his inventions? Fenris obviously didn’t want to go; he’d been avoiding me since, well…anyway, the invention was some sort of machine that was triggered by lyrium. We didn’t know, and…it knocked Fenris unconscious and released a fear demon.”

Krem stared at him. 

“The demon…did something to his mind, and when he woke up he was. Ah.” Dorian cleared his throat and looked away. “Let’s just say he wasn’t ignoring me anymore. Far from it.”

Krem’s mouth twitched. “So that’s what you meant by ‘unexpected negative effects.’ And when you said you could fix it, I assume…”

Dorian couldn’t meet his eyes. “Yes. So, you’re right, clearly. It’s a bad situation all around, and it’s my fault, and the worst part is that now he wants to stay. Here. With me. That’s what he told me when I tried to apologize for nearly killing him in the ritual chamber. And it’s…there’s something wrong with that, right? There’s no way he actually genuinely would want to remain here at a soon-to-be magister’s side.”

“I don’t know, maybe he’s branching out? It’s about time he stopped hating every mage he meets.”

“Agreed, but I don’t think _I’m_ really a good starting point for that! He _should_ hate me, and the fact that he doesn’t, the fact that he went through so much pain just to save me…I never meant for the _thing_ we had to go as far as it did. And a part of me wants him to stay, but he _can’t_. I am a constant reminder of his past, and he doesn’t need that. Fenris doesn’t belong here, that’s why we made him a free man, and I won’t let him get tied down because of some drunken _mistake_ that never should’ve happened –”

The door swung open. “I was coming to talk to you,” Fenris said coldly, his ears pricked and eyes narrowed, “but I think I’ve heard all I needed to already.”

Dorian sat up so fast he got a headrush. “Kaffas, Fenris –”

“I know you never actually _said_ you wanted me to stay, but I assumed the melodramatic kiss meant something along those lines. Apparently that was stupid of me, seeing as how you don’t want me to stay after all. Or, wait, you do want me to stay, but I _can’t_ , because for some reason you think you can control me.” Fenris was sneering, and Dorian’s mind was a mess of replies, of desperate thoughts and pleading words, none of which he could articulate.

All he managed to say was, “I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” which just made Fenris flush in anger.

“You can put it on your list of mistakes, right under ‘slept with Fenris,’” he spat.

Dorian shook his head. “It wasn’t –”

“Go have your _fun_ with somebody else,” Fenris said. “I’m done. After Quillian’s dead, I’m leaving, since apparently I don’t belong here. And if you ever get your idiot self stuck in a blood ritual again, don’t expect me to save your ass. I won’t make that _mistake_ again.”

“Please, don’t –”

“Go beg your daddy for a new toy to play with, I’m sure he’d oblige,” Fenris growled, and then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him. 

“That could’ve gone better,” Krem said after a moment of shell-shocked silence.

Dorian turned his face into the pillow, suddenly feeling like a small child again, struggling not to cry or set something on fire or both. The fabric smelled like spices and perfume, nothing like his bed in Minrathous. It smelled like Fenris. Maker, he was pathetic. He swallowed and closed his eyes tightly, fighting the urge to throw up. “Could you tell Sparrow to bring the paper later? I…I’m rather tired at the moment. If that’s alright.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Krem said quietly, standing. He touched Dorian’s shoulder as he walked past. “I doubt he really meant all that,” he murmured. “Fenris just gets…angry.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Dorian said with a forced laugh. “But no…this is the way it should be. He deserves someone much better than me.”

“If you say so,” Krem sighed, and Dorian listened to his fading footsteps with a hollow feeling in his chest.

*

Fenris stiffened when someone knocked at his door, eyeing it suspiciously. He didn’t trust anyone in this house – the estate in Minrathous had been bearable since it only contained one mage who wasn’t even a real magister, but this damn place had an Altus, a magister, and his wife. And to think he’d actually wanted to stay here?  
Fenris glared at the door. He’d wanted to stay here because he thought being with Dorian would maybe, just maybe, make it bearable. He’d meant it when he’d said their work wasn’t done here. And…and he’d thought he meant it when he said they weren’t done yet either. He’d wanted…something. He didn’t know what, exactly, but when Dorian had kissed him, it made him feel warm and wanted and…and _happy_. 

Whatever it was, though, clearly Dorian didn’t want the same. No. He should’ve expected that Dorian, shallow as he was, wouldn’t want anything more than fun. Especially not from Fenris. No strings, they’d agreed. Fenris had made the mistake of breaking that condition. And Dorian had made the mistake of using him just like he used everyone else.

“Fenris? C’mon, can you take a break from your brooding?”

Krem. Fenris was torn. It wasn’t a mage, at least, but on the other hand Krem had seen the whole outburst and was probably going to try to talk to him about _emotions_ and _apologies_ , neither of which Fenris was very keen about.

“I’m not brooding,” he snapped, cracking the door open and crossing his arms. “What d’you want?”

“Uh…I don’t suppose you want to talk about Dorian?”

“No.”

“How about some sparring practice, then?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. 

“You’ve been bedridden way too long,” Krem pushed. “At this rate, you’re going to end up like one of these lazy mages. Probably lost most of your muscle already –”

“You’ve made your point,” Fenris muttered, surreptitiously touching his stomach. It _did_ feel a little softer than usual. “Fine.” He did not mention that although Dorian _was_ a very lazy mage, he definitely hadn’t lost his muscles.

The bastard was terribly vain, after all.

“They’ve got a big-ass courtyard,” Krem said after Fenris had dressed and followed him downstairs, pointedly not even sparing a glance for Dorian’s door. “Impressive armory, too.”

“Armory?” Fenris snorted. “What do they need that for?”

Krem shrugged. “Dorian can handle a blade well enough too, probably practiced here when he was younger. You’ve seen how he tends to skewer opponents on the end of his staff like some kind of melee mage.”

Fenris ignored him.

“Right. Forgot we’re not talking about _the mage_.”

Fenris grunted in approval, crossing the foyer and nearly running into a slave with her arms full of linens, which she promptly dropped. He stiffened and stepped back as if burned, she yelped. “Oh! Messere, I am so sorry.”

Fenris blinked. “ _Messere?_ ”

She blinked right back, stumbling to pick up her linens. “I…yes? You are Fenris, are you not, Messere? Magister Pavus and Lady Pavus said you should be treated with the utmost respect, since you saved Lord Dorian.”

Messere. Fenris had never been addressed as such – that was Hawke’s title. “You’re from the Free Marches?” he asked curiously. “Kirkwall?”

She shifted and nodded quickly. “Yes, Messere. You lived there once too, didn’t you?”

“How did you –”

“Oh, I’ve read the book, Messere! You’re very heroic in it. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“You…read the book.”

Her face fell. “I apologize for bothering you, Messere…”

“No, no, it’s not…” Fenris sighed. “I’m glad you read the book,” he said.

She smiled shyly. “Thank you, Messere. Now, if you’ll excuse me…I’m afraid I must be going.” She shuffled off with her linens.

“She can read?” Fenris murmured as they went outside, warm sunlight washing over them. 

“Huh?” Krem asked, distracted.

“Nothing.”

Krem headed off to go find some weapons, and Fenris leaned against the stone wall thoughtfully, looking out at the nearby ocean. Perhaps he would thank Varric after all this was over – his silly _Tale of the Champion_ had spread like a plague, even managing to reach a slave girl in Tevinter. That was something Fenris never could’ve imagined, and it made him feel almost as happy as Dorian’s kiss had.

Almost.

Krem’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. (He was definitely not brooding.) “Hey, catch!” He tossed a sword through the air with a grin on his face and a shield in his hand. Fenris caught the hilt and let his body fall into the familiar motions, light and free and high on adrenaline as the two of them thrust and parried, back and forth, back and forth, a dance that made Fenris’s blood sing louder than any lyrium.

If only everything could be as easy as this. 

*

After a much-needed four hour long nap, Dorian managed to write the letter and give it to Sparrow, who thanked him and gave him a sympathetic look. Wonderful, so she knew about Fenris now too. He doubted Krem had told her about what had happened – it was obvious to anyone with eyes that the two of them were not on good terms. Well, _Fenris_ wasn’t on good terms with him – Dorian’s heart still leapt absurdly whenever he saw him, as if Fenris was some childhood crush, when in reality he was a very angry elf who’d probably gladly crush Dorian.

Dorian slept some more. Krem came by to tell him they were leaving for Quillian’s in the morning. Dorian told him to be safe. He watched them leave from his window, wishing he was there with them yet knowing he would only slow them down. His magic was stronger now, but whenever he used it he felt a strange echo of the lyrium’s song, a sweet surge of power in his veins that scared him and intrigued him all at once. Fenris might be leaving, but somehow Dorian doubted the mark his lyrium had made would leave with him. The realization that Fenris really had given up a part of himself to save Dorian just made him feel worse. 

When he finally ventured out of his room, it was after an hour of frustrated preening before giving up and resigning himself to looking like he had the Blight. Felix would have been so proud. He also would’ve made Dorian feel much better, but instead he was trapped in here with only his dear mother and father for company. Hopefully, he reached out to the Fade, but the spirit from the Magrellan was gone. Perhaps it really had been the spirit of Felix, like the Divine’s spirit in the Fade at Adamant. It was better to think of him still out there somewhere, helping people and gallivanting about, than it was to think of him turned to nothingness. 

Dorian shuddered. He needed a drink to chase away such morbid thoughts. Then again, he was a necromancer, so maybe there was nothing to be done about his macabre nature. Still, he found himself heading towards the wine cellars – perhaps if he was sneaky enough, nobody would find him. He _had_ been taking notes from Lavellan and her stealth techniques for a while…

“Dorian, darling.”

He cursed. He’d barely made it downstairs and his plan had already been foiled. He tried to look on the bright side – at least it wasn’t his father? “Mother,” he said. “You haven’t aged a day.”

“I try,” she replied airily, pinning him with that cunning stare that had frightened him so much as a child. Like she knew all your secrets, just from a look. But Dorian had managed to keep plenty of secrets from her back in the day, and the fear had worn off eventually. “I must say, I’d hoped you’d return home someday, but…not like this.”

“Apologies. I’ll try not to get tangled in any extremist cults for a while. We wouldn’t want the beloved son to fall prey to a blood ritual, now would we? Oh, wait. Too late.” He wasn’t blaming her, though it came out harsher than he meant it. It had been his father who wielded the knife, not her, yet he was certain she must have known about it – perhaps even encouraged it. 

But she just looked…sad. It was disarming. Lady Aquinea Pavus did not show emotion if she could help it. And yet there she was, looking as if she were about to cry. “Oh, Dorian,” she said, her voice catching in a way too raw to be fake. “Believe me, when I learned what happened, I shouted at your father so loudly his ears were ringing for weeks.”

“You…didn’t know?” Dorian shook his head. “But you wanted me to marry, you kept introducing me to all those women, you kept forcing me to go to all those galas –”

“But I would never have tried to force a spirit into your head to make you be the son I wanted,” she finished. “Or, more likely, a demon. Spirits change when exposed to the sins of men, and I’m quite certain that ritual would have either turned you into an abomination or a vegetable, neither of which is my idea of an acceptable son.”

“You have a very specific idea of acceptable, Mother, and I’m well aware I don’t fit those standards.” Dorian frowned. “But if you didn’t persuade him to do it, then…why did Father turn to blood magic?”

“Your father was desperate, and he was wrong. He told you blood magic is the resort of a weak mind? It is. His desperation made him weak. It was his last resort and it would have destroyed both of you.” Her expression hardened. “You are my son, acceptable or not. I know you may not see a future for yourself here, however next time you decide to go adventuring with southern barbarians for three years, I expect a letter or two. When we received news of Felix’s death, I…” She took a deep breath and composed herself. “Some communication once in a while would save me from an early onset of wrinkles, darling.”

“Ah. We wouldn’t want that,” Dorian replied, though his tone had grown softer despite himself. He hesitated. “And…don’t go crying it from the rooftops, but I have considered staying in Tevinter for some time. Be warned, though – the moment you start shoving magisters’ daughters at me again, I’m going back to the south to frolic in the mud with the dogs.”

Her horrified expression was reassuring enough, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

“And trust me, there is plenty of mud and dog to go around. And not enough bathtubs.”

She made a disgusted noise, and then considered him for a moment. “It is unconventional, but if you’re truly intent on being such a pariah, there are other ways of procuring an heir. Adoption would sully the Pavus bloodline, but…I suppose it is preferable to the house dying out completely because of one obstinate son who refuses to acknowledge any attraction to women.”

“One son who has never been and never will be attracted to women,” Dorian corrected. 

She pursed her lips. “At least you didn’t fall for some Ferelden milkmaid, I suppose. Thank the Maker for that.”

Dorian wiggled his eyebrows and she blanched. “He was a simple blacksmith, actually…very good with his hands –”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Breathe, Mother. I’m not bringing home a _blacksmith_.”

“But you did bring home that elf.”

Dorian tensed and he knew she saw it. She’d probably seen in a long time ago, knowing her.

“Fenris has quite the reputation even here in Qarinus,” she went on blithely. “A lyrium-carved trophy of Magister Danarius’s who ran free for years in Kirkwall before murdering his old master?” She tilted her head. “One would think that after the abuse he suffered here, he’d never return. And yet, here he is. One would also think he had an aversion to mages, especially Tevinter mages. And yet. Here he is, in the home of a magister after saving the life of his Altus son.”

Dorian sighed, and yearned for the wine cellar.

“Why do you suppose that is, Dorian?”

Dorian was weary, and very much done with his mother’s interrogation, so he simply said, “I slept with him, yes. Multiple times. I would give you details, but they’d shame House Pavus immeasurably so I’d better not. Wouldn’t want the word to get out that the notorious Fenris was fucking your son.” She gaped and he rolled his eyes. “And yes, past tense. He’s leaving Tevinter the first chance he gets, because as you so brilliantly inferred, he’s not very fond of this country.” He turned on his heel, already planning an alternate route to the kitchen pantry, which usually had some decent brandy. 

He thought his mother had given up, but then she said, “Is he fond of you?”

Dorian stopped. “No,” he said bitterly over his shoulder. “Fond is…not the word I would use.”

“Are you fond of him?”

Dorian frowned, and did not look back. “Goodbye, Mother,” he said.

*

As soon as they arrived at the estate gates, Fenris knew something was wrong. There was an unpleasant crackle of magic in the air – dark magic, the kind he’d often felt back in Kirkwall, and his lyrium’s glow warned the others. “You’re sure his slaves received the message?” Fenris asked quietly. 

Sparrow nodded, crossing the gardens to a smaller side door – the front entry was almost assuredly locked, and Fenris didn’t like the look of it anyway. He wouldn’t be surprised if something was guarding it from the inside.

The slave quarters door opened easily, and the group gasped collectively at the massacre that lay beyond. Bunks had been sliced clean in two, tables and chairs smashed, and bodies of elves were strewn everywhere, still and bloodied. The magic was stronger here, along with a foul smell somewhere between rancid meat and sulfur. “This is worse than the Winter Palace,” Krem hissed. “How…?”

Fenris stepped forward, crunching a piece of pottery under his foot, and his ears picked up the sound of a low groan off to his right. “Over here,” he murmured, going to the source, which was a male elf slumped against the splintered remnants of a trunk. Fenris knelt down, inspecting the damage – he was beyond help, with a diagonal slash across his abdomen that looked to be infected already. It was only the elf’s hands held over it that kept his entrails in.

The elf looked at him hazily. “You…should go,” he rasped. “Master is…upset.”

Fenris shook his head. “What happened here?”

“Master…found the letter. He’s gone mad, killed a slave and used her blood…demons everywhere, killed us all…” The elf coughed, then choked, pain etched in every line of his face. “He said he’d be…waiting for you.”

“Where?” 

“The…the ballroom. Don’t go,” the elf pleaded. “He’ll kill you. Kill you all.”

“Not if I cut his head off first,” Fenris said grimly, standing and nodding at Sparrow. “There’s nothing we can do for this one.” Sparrow frowned but came forward, unsheathing one of her knives and touching the elf’s face lightly. 

“I will make sure your death means something,” she told him, and then she brought the knife across his throat with a swift slice and a gush of red. He gurgled, eyes wide, then fell silent. “Let’s go,” she said.

*

The entire mansion was damaged, the tapestries and paintings in the halls slashed as if by claws, everything reeking of blood magic. Part of Fenris had expected the magister would go to desperate measures, but…it didn’t make him any less on edge about the whole thing. His lyrium was perpetually aglow, uncomfortable and prickling at his nerves distractingly. Krem gave him a look and he just shook his head, his whole body shivering with it. The sooner this was over, the better.

They’d just turned a corner when a horror lunged at them, shrieking and raking its talons through the air, barely missing Fenris’s shoulder. It threw its head back to scream, and Fenris snarled and phased right through its skinny frame, splattering guts all over, including on himself. Adrianna gawked and Fenris shrugged, shaking like a dog and sending bits of gore flying. “I’d say we’re close now,” he said, stalking down the hall towards a door that led to what was most definitely a trap. 

“Fenris, maybe we should come up with some kind of plan here? A strategy?” Adrianna suggested.

“Kill Quillian. Simple enough.”

“There’s going to be more demons –”

“Then kill the demons too,” Fenris snapped, irritated and in pain. His skin was buzzing, little currents of ambient magic making the lyrium burn. 

“Alright,” Adrianna conceded. 

Just before he opened the door, Krem came up beside him and whispered, “Don’t get yourself killed.”

Fenris scoffed. He’d fought an abomination First Echanter and a lyrium-crazed Knight Commander before – this was nothing. But he nodded at Krem. “You too.” Then he pushed, and the door swung open.

Quillian stood in the center of the otherwise empty ballroom, pacing back and forth with a staff in hand and the bodies of several more slaves surrounding him, puddles of blood slowly coagulating on the marble floor. His head snapped up when they entered, a smile spreading across his face. “At last! I was actually worried you wouldn’t come.” He scanned the group, smile growing. “Adrianna, dear – always a pleasure to see you. And Sparrow…finally come back to your master, have you? I knew you would eventually.” He paused. “But where is the littlest Pavus? Oh, no…did something unfortunate happen to him?”

Fenris bristled despite himself. “No. He is _fine._ ”

Quillian’s eyes flickered in surprise. “Well, what a pity he couldn’t make it here, then. It would make this a much fairer fight…as it is, I believe you’re about to be outnumbered. This will be over quickly.”

Quillian raised his hand, blood lifting up from the floor and swirling into his palm, dissolving into green light that arched up, up, up…

“Shit!” Krem cried. “Get back, he’s opening a –”

But Fenris had already leapt forward, ready to swing his sword at the magister, snarling as his blade sliced through bone and lopped Quillian’s outstretched arm right off. He screamed and fell, but the green light did not die, and the next moment Fenris was knocked backwards by the force of a rift exploding into being, the Fade seeping into his flesh, into his lyrium, and suddenly Fenris could not move.

He’d never experienced a rift up close before, he thought dimly as an arc of lightning hit the fallen Quillian in his chest, making him jerk like a deranged puppet. And perhaps that was a good thing, because the outburst of energy was overwhelming, he felt like he was short-circuiting over and over again, arms and legs pinned at his sides helplessly. He could do nothing but stare up at the shade as it slashed at his armor, claws screeching against the metal and teeth snapping hungrily. 

The lyrium felt almost as it had in Titus’s blood ritual at that party so long ago…but ten times worse, and this time there was no golden magic to stop the unbearable agony. A horror joined the shade and they made short work of his breastplate, ripping through fabric and flesh in a sick burst of pain that sent a bolt of adrenaline through him, giving him the strength to get back up with a snarl that sent the shade scuttling away. The horror, however, still circled him speculatively. Fenris’s chest was heaving, blood splattering the tiles – there was fighting all around him, the shrieks and shouts of demons and men echoing off the high, vaulted ceiling endlessly, a blood magic imitation of a Fade rift shifting above them. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Adrianna dispatch a despair demon and focus on the mock-rift, sending a bolt of concentrated magic at it that made all the demons wail and sway, stunned. Seeing his chance, Fenris darted forward and cut the horror in two, stumbling and landing heavily on his knees as it screeched and dissolved into ash. The other demons were felled just as quickly, and the rift sputtered out as the last one crumbled into nothingness. 

Krem ran to him as soon as the fight was over, but Fenris held up a hand and shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

He wasn’t fine. The lyrium was pulsing, threatening to crack under the pressure of all the energy he’d seemingly _absorbed_. But he didn’t think Krem would quite understand such an explanation. Besides, he was fine enough to stand unsteadily, holding a hand over the bleeding gash on his chest and limping over to Quillian, who was stirring weakly on the floor. Fenris was satisfied to note that his right arm was lying several feet away. No more spells for him.

But the magister still made some attempt to die with whatever shred of dignity he had left, glaring at Adrianna and Sparrow as they flanked him, standing over him with matching frowns. His chest was blackened by Adrianna’s lightning, and he eyed her warily, but when she stepped back and nodded to Sparrow instead, he started to laugh. His laughter was a horrible sound, hacking and wet and rattling with every numbered breath he took. The smell was worse here, and then Fenris realized it was Quillian’s perfume – cloves and citrus, but tainted by blood and death and darkness, the last resorts of weak men. 

“What exactly do you hope to accomplish?” Quillian taunted, staring at his former slave with malice and amusement. “Kill me, and another magister just like me will rise up to take my place. This is not a game you can win, little bird.”

“It’s certainly not a game _you_ can win,” she retorted, and then with a flash of her dagger Quillian was gone, just another corpse, another body, another dead man. The room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as the light left his eyes, and Sparrow wiped her knife on her sleeve and sheathed it with a small smile. “It’s done,” she said. 

Adrianna leaned heavily against her staff. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I need a five hour long bath. I have pieces of demon organs _in my hair_.” Avis chuckled and plucked one of the pieces out, flicking it at Krem.

With hair that was more red than white, Fenris was definitely worse off than her. His armor was pretty much covered in drying viscera. Sparrow handed him a handkerchief, and he snorted and wiped his face as best he could, not bothering to give it back. As he tossed it away, his chest twinged with the motion. He ignored it – it was a shallow cut that had missed his lyrium and could heal easily on its own. No magic required. 

They left the house of ghosts with much higher spirits, Avis and Adrianna going on and on about how they planned to reinstate the Antivan Ignis cousin in the Magisterium with some help from Magister Pavus, some of his political allies, and the lovely Josephine Montilyet. She was more than happy to ‘convince’ the estranged cousin that Tevinter would be a much better fit for him. After that was done, it would be all too easy for Adrianna to accept the Archon’s old apprenticeship.

It was all very important talk and Fenris _was_ pleased with the progress they’d made. The Venatori had been snuffed out once and for all, Quillian and Titus had met their demise, and the next Archon was going to be someone who might finally change Tevinter for the better. The Red Crown was closer to rising than it had ever been. But for some reason he didn’t feel much like celebrating. In front of him, Krem and Sparrow laughed and when Krem wrapped an arm around her waist easily, Fenris’s chest twinged again. He didn’t think it was from the wound.

They found themselves once again in the slave quarters and their joyful conversation ceased. Adrianna exhaled. “They should all get proper burials,” she murmured. “Sooner rather than later…it would be a disaster if some wayward necromancer caught wind of this. 

Krem made a face. “It would be worse than the Fallow Mire, and that’s saying something. Dorian wouldn’t shut up about how awful that place was for months afterward.”

Sparrow frowned. “It’s a pity Dorian wasn’t here for all this. He was a critical part of our success, after all.”

Fenris glowered. “Clearly he didn’t think it was critical enough to bother getting out of bed.”

Avis blinked at him, bewildered. “Didn’t Dorian nearly die less than a week ago? I’d say he’s allowed some rest.”

Adrianna just shook her head and opened the door, striding to the waiting carriage. “Whatever your issue with him is, I’m not letting it ruin my good mood,” she declared. Avis shot Fenris another confused look before following her, along with Sparrow (who was practically skipping).

Krem, of course, lingered. Because he was Krem, and Fenris was certain he must have been a mother hen in another life. A very tough mother hen, but still. Fenris folded his arms. “Don’t,” he said warningly. 

But Krem was not dissuaded. “You’re really still mad at him?”

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t be.”

Krem rolled his eyes. “He _cares_ about you, Fenris.”

Fenris started towards the carriage. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Come on, Dorian’s good at plenty of things but expressing his feelings is not one of them,” Krem pointed out. “And the same goes for you.”

“So, what? You want me to go to him and talk about _feelings_? Because I already did that. And he said the whole thing was a mistake.” Fenris gestured angrily to the door. “After you.”

Krem shook his head. “You’re both idiots,” he mumbled, and made sure to kiss Sparrow on the cheek when he sat down. Fenris gritted his teeth. 

The carriage started moving with a clatter of wheels and hooves, and the group’s incessant chatter began again. Fenris stared out the window blankly, and he wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the pain returned – a constant stinging like pins and needles that kept multiplying, spreading from limb to limb, curling in his chest tightly and making it difficult to breathe. He coughed discreetly, clutching his side at the resulting ache. Something was…something was wrong –

“Fenris?” Krem’s hand on his shoulder, the touch excruciating, lyrium overloaded with sensation and energy. Fenris made a low, guttural sound of pain and tried to shake him off. Krem had heard many wounded men before, though, and leaned closer, concerned. “Is your chest bleeding again? It didn’t look too deep –”

“N-no,” Fenris muttered. “It’s…I don’t know.” He straightened up with difficulty, swallowing back the bile in his throat. 

Adrianna frowned. “That looks pretty bad, Fenris. I can heal it for you, though –”

He sucked in a breath. “That…won’t be necessary.” His head was spinning. The lyrium felt like…felt like it was _cracking_ , shattering under his skin…

“You don’t have to be such a martyr all the time,” Adrianna sighed. “Really, it’s no trouble.” And before he could stop her, she reached out and green light filled the small space, touching his skin in a way that was supposed to be soothing but actually made him _scream_ , gasping and doubling over in agony. Krem was cursing loudly, Adrianna was apologizing in a panic, and Fenris was on the verge of unconsciousness.

“Qarinus is an hour away,” Sparrow said faintly. “Fenris, are you…can you…”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he spat, fighting to keep his eyes open, to keep his heart pumping as the lyrium and the magic it had collected threatened to consume him. 

“Maybe Dorian will know what to do,” Adrianna said. “I’ve…I’ve never seen anything like this before –”

“No,” Fenris whispered, nails digging into his palms. “Don’t take me to him –” And then his spine buckled with a wordless cry, vision and reason lost in a haze of hurt, and Krem had to hold his wrists down against the velvet seat to stop him from scratching the lyrium out of his own flesh.

*

Dorian was listlessly translating one of Alexius’s old volumes from Ancient Tevene when he heard the carriage clatter across the drive. He rose so quickly he almost knocked his chair over, and steeled himself for a moment – he was going to do this properly, with composure and decorum and…oh, Maker, he wasn’t sure if he could bear to see Fenris’s loathing for him again. No. Not again. For the last time. 

It was better this way.

He went downstairs, trying to formulate some kind of speech in his head.

_Congrats on killing Quillian. He was a pain in the arse, wasn’t he? Just like you! Ha, get it, because…_

Perhaps he’d be better off saying anything at all. A congratulatory smile would suffice, wouldn’t it? Then the thought occurred to him that maybe Fenris had already left. It would have been so easy for him to board a ship in Minrathous – he’d seemed friendly enough with Isabela. For all Dorian knew, he was halfway to Seheron by now. 

Kaffas.

Then a scream shattered the air, and Dorian’s eyes widened at the onslaught of voices that came afterwards – Krem, Adrianna, Sparrow, Avis…which meant the one who had screamed was Fenris. He broke into a run, dashing down the stairs and skidding to a halt in the front hall, where a small circle had formed. Fenris was in the middle, crumpled, breathing shallowly, and covered in blood and gore, with Krem’s hands hovering over his skin like he was afraid to touch him. Adrianna saw him and shook her head once, frantic, before running off to find help.

Dorian went down on his knees, looking at Fenris with wide eyes. “What happened to you?” he murmured, reaching out. Krem slapped his hand away. “What –”

“It’s something to do with his lyrium,” Krem snapped. “Quillian used blood magic and it did something to him, like an overload or an overdose, I don’t know. Adrianna tried to touch him earlier and just made it worse with her magic. It’s like he just fucking…absorbed it.”

Dorian blinked, his mind flickering back to warm water and warmer skin. 

_Maker, Fenris, what do you do with all that magic?_

_I…do not know. But wherever it went, it helped. You helped._

The lyrium’s song, filling his veins even when Fenris was miles and miles away…

“Wait,” he said unsteadily. “I think I…” He let his palms fill with golden light and he reached out again.

Krem made a frustrated sound. “Dorian, I know you want to help but you’re shit at healing and it’s just going to hurt him more –”

“No,” Dorian said, more firmly. “I took something from him. _That_ hurt him. But now I’m giving it back.”

And before Krem could forcibly remove him from the room, Dorian grabbed Fenris’s arm.

Fenris’s resulting cry cut off halfway through, golden tendrils lighting the lyrium from within and making him groan weakly, struggling to stay upright. Dorian wrapped his other arm around Fenris and pulled him close instead, the elf slumping against his chest and staining Dorian’s robes red. His skin was feverishly hot and practically humming with energy, yet everywhere the golden light spread seemed to cool and calm. 

Dorian could feel Fenris’s stuttering heartbeat, and he focused on that as he let his magic flow, breaking past the lyrium’s resistance and coaxing out the dark veins forming there, remnants of Quillian and Titus and all the other corruption he’d been exposed to, all the twisted spells and bloody rituals that had made the elf hate magic so much. Fenris shivered, the lyrium pulled enticingly at Dorian but not even the sweetest song could have convinced him to take it. He’d taken enough from Fenris already.

Instead, he let the leftover power from the lyrium Fenris had given surge through his fingertips, and with a deep breath he let it go, dizzy and drained. It was all gone, the song was gone, Fenris was gone, and when Fenris left, Dorian would have nothing to remember him by. But Fenris was alive in his arms, the tension and pain leaving him in a flare of gold, and that was all that really mattered.

If Dorian were a more sensible man, he might have let go and backed off before Fenris returned to complete consciousness, but he was not and he did not. He’d rather risk getting punched in the face than walk away right now. 

But when Fenris opened his eyes, he didn’t punch Dorian. He just whispered, “Warm,” a tiny smile forming on his lips. 

Dorian held him tighter. “It _was_ a mistake,” he said, and Fenris stiffened. “But it was the best mistake I’ve ever made, and I’d make it a hundred times over.” Fenris raised his head and blinked slowly, hopefully. “But I believe that this, _us_ …that was no mistake. And I’m afraid that there are far too many strings attached by now, what with the whole saving each other’s lives business. And I don’t want you to leave.” He cupped Fenris’s face. “You’re right, I can’t control you, and I have no desire to. I just want you to be happy. Are you happy?”

Fenris nodded, eyes closing and lips parting like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I am.” 

“Then please stay,” Dorian murmured. “Please.”

“I never wanted to go,” Fenris replied, and when they kissed it felt like a promise.

Perhaps it was.

*

Dorian yawned and sat up languidly, sheets just barely draped over his hips. Fenris watched him in the mirror, smirking as he fastened his pauldrons. “Having a good dream?”

Dorian yawned again and shot him an irritable look. “I _was_ , until you turned on the lamp. What _time_ is it?”

“Time to wake up.”

Dorian folded his arms. “If the sun’s not up yet, neither am I.”

“The carriage will be here in an hour, and your hair is going to take up most of that time. So you’d better hurry up or I’m leaving without you.”

Dorian blinked. “Leaving…oh! I’d forgotten today was the day.”

“Must be your old age catching up to you,” Fenris remarked.

Dorian glared. “You’re older than me, thank you very much.”

“And yet I age so much better.”

“ _Elves_ ,” Dorian said with mock-disgust, reluctantly sliding out of bed.

As Dorian complained and got dressed, Fenris finished putting on the last of his armor, save for his gauntlets, which he tucked into his trunk after a moment’s hesitation. After all, he wouldn’t be able to touch Dorian if he wore them. Once upon a time he’d worn those things for the sole purpose of hurting whatever (or whomever) he touched. But the two of them had had enough hurt for several lifetimes, so away they went, next to a folded pile of fine new tunics and a little jar of lavender oil. 

Dorian must’ve really been tired, because he just peered into the mirror, ran a hand through his hair and sighed, giving up and sitting on the edge of the bed. “I don’t think I’m even going to bother with trying to look wonderful when I’ll probably be vomiting halfway across the Waking Sea. That is not a good look for me, believe it or not.” He winced. “And I’ll stay in my own little corner, don’t worry.”

Fenris scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re staying with me, vomit or not.”

“I’m not sure whether that’s digusting or sweet,” Dorian chuckled.

“Disgustingly sweet,” Fenris suggested, before twisting around and kissing him. Dorian hummed and leaned into it. 

When they broke apart, Dorian looked at him seriously, frowning a little. “When we get to Skyhold…I completely understand if you want to keep this a secret. Us, I mean.” He bit his lip. “They’re decent people, but…we will almost certainly set tongues wagging. And not in a good way, I’m afraid. So. If you don’t want them to know –”

Fenris paused, thoughtful. But he already knew his answer. “No. I want them to know.” His hand slipped down, tangling with Dorian’s. “I want them to know you’re mine.”

Dorian smiled, soft and uncertain, like he couldn’t quite believe he got to have this, whatever it was that they had. Fenris squeezed his hand. He understood. 

“Yours,” Dorian agreed.

Fenris couldn’t quite believe it, either.


End file.
